


Mutual Assured Destruction

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anarchy, Angst, Autocracy, Blood, Chaos, Erratic and slow updates, F/F, F/M, Gore, Hallucinations, Insanity, M/M, Mafia mentions/illegal activities, Magic, Multi, Nuclear Weapons, Paranoia, Psychological Warfare, Serious Injuries, Sexual innuendos, Violence, War, dark themes, language/swearing, probably nothing MA though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 80,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: It's like an infectious and terminal disease, which turned into a deadly epidemic. They came out of nowhere, because they were careless, they forgot about them, they didn't take care of themselves as they should have, they didn't do what they should have, do what they had to do. They turned away for a minute, and were blind for far too long.ON HIATUS





	1. Prelude

_"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no-one thinks of changing themselves."_

_Leo Tolstoy._

Rain rattled against the window, the sheer force of the water trying break and shatter the weakened, cracked glass. It was constantly slamming shut, only to reopen with the backdraft of the wind rushing back out. Its hinges creaked as the wind toyed with it, trying to tear it down, crack it up. The wooden frame was resisting only barely, holding its ground against the powerful and violent force of nature. The grey outside was mixing harmoniously with the dull inside of the house, devoid of any life for the minute. The dying fire crackled in its place, the weak flames fighting a losing battle against the cold of the room as it held on to its last breaths for life, slowing diminishing in what seemed like a slow-motion dance. Finally, its flames died out entirely, leaving only the black coal to cool down.

Suddenly, the door opened, only to be shut again with a resounding bang. The dark silhouette marched up the stairs of the squalid shack, causing them to squeak and creak under the pressure. Another door flew open, crashing against the wall behind it, and slammed shut, the hinges complaining noisily. Silence beat down into the house once again, the only noise being the silent war of the raindrops against the window, trying to fight their way in.

While the house was plunged in an almost ear-shattering silence, thick and smothering, another small sound began to etch its way through, slowly chipping at it. The sound of restless footsteps, constantly pacing upstairs, round and round around the room, across it, up and down, never stopping. The steps continued for a minute, then another, which stretched into ten. The almost agonisingly repetitive sound reflected an agonising waiting, the owner of the footsteps waiting desperately for something to happen, for _it_ to happen.

The door downstairs creaked open, delicately, as if the person entering the house knew it was in a very unstable shape and could collapse any minute. The broken wood planks across the windows were rotten, and looked as if someone had tried to tear them away. It would be a surprise to no-one if this was the case. The floorboards emitted eerie noises as the person stood in the hallway, shifting their weight from one leg to another. They knew the person upstairs had heard their arrival, and also knew that they would have to wait for a minute for their temper to calm down. Then, finally, the person upstairs moved around, and came out of the room they had been in. The person downstairs smiled brightly, a malicious glint in their eyes, while the other glared violently.

"No need to make such a sour face, now, is there? I'm here, like I said I would be," the new arrival said.

"Cut it out, Oliver, I ain't here to watch you be a sarcastic little-"

"Don't swear, please, Allen. This is my house, so play by my rules," Oliver interrupted, taking off his coat, his voice a thick, sugary sound. The poison beneath the words was almost inaudible, clear only to those who had seen him at his worst and best.

Allen only glared more, but refrained from starting a fight. He knew why he was here. "Well?"

Oliver ignored him in favour of going to the kitchen. "Can I offer you a cupcake?" He lifted a plate of bright, colourful cupcakes, all decorated to the last bit. Allen raised an eyebrow, scowling at him. He shot the Brit a look of disbelief from over his red sunglasses.

"Ya seriously think I'm here to get poisoned by-"

"Allen, I am wounded." Oliver pouted a bit, before picking one of the cakes and taking a bite. "You know I do not poison these without an actual reason. And what could be the reason behind poisoning the person I need help from, anyway?"

"Don't care, I ain't hungry. Just, can we get on with it? I have to see if we got any chance of even getting there in the first place. Never mind finishing them off, but-"

"Allen, one step at a time. I first need you to help me see whether we can drag the thing up here. Then, I will try to make it work, and after that - and only then - will we be able to tell the others. And well, get them through."

Oliver brushed past Allen, still eating the cupcake. He looked around for a moment, before locating what he was looking for. He stepped towards the stairs, to the wall under them. He passed his hand over the wood, fumbling for something. His hand then suddenly caught, and he wrapped it around the metallic handle he had revealed. A small door swung open, revealing an almost complete darkness behind it. The only thing they could see was the top of the stairs that led down - or what was left of them. Half-eaten, rotten or otherwise weathered, they looked like they could not stay up another minute without collapsing.

Allen looked dubious. "Alright, I got two problems with this. That's just like you to have a cliché basement door, and two, why the fuck did you think I would go down _those_?"

Oliver sighed in exasperation. "Just pass me a candle - or if you happen to have a torch with you, that's better. And those stairs are made of rock-"

"They're _wood_."

"It's a spell," Oliver snapped. "Of course I don't want anyone going down these stairs, so of course I have to make it look like they're crumbling." He shook his head. "Now can you please give me some light?"

Allen huffed, reaching into his pocket, and handing Oliver the torchlight. Oliver turned it on, flashing it to the basement. He waved his hand quickly, and the stairs quickly became stone. Oliver stepped in, and Allen followed. The torchlight offered little illumination in the almost complete darkness still surrounding them, barely a sickly orb that scanned the stairs. They finally reached the bottom, entering a small room. Oliver snapped his fingers, and torches around the room lit up. The room was filled with hundreds of objects - most of them broken or unusable. There were glass shards on the floor, crunching beneath their shoes. Oliver quickly looked over the room, and made a beeline for the back corner. There was a tall object hidden by a moth-eaten sheet that had probably one day been white, but now was an ill grey colour. A light giggle escape the strawberry-blond man.

"Found it!"

* * *

A world away, the golden, dying sunlight flooded a conference room with its warm water of life. It cast a glinting shine upon everything as it billowed in through the windows, carried by the autumn breeze that made the velvet curtains flow gently. Not that many people in the room noticed. The sky was darkening, tucking itself into the warm bed of night, but the nations gathered for the conference had payed no heed to the fact for over an hour. The voices inside could be heard a long way in the hallway behind the room, the arguments carrying far.

"Oh, and you are a bloody brilliant plan-maker, aren't you, _frog_?"

A frustrated huff.

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Do I _really_ need to remind you of the Maginot Line (1)?"

"Hey, guys, I'm not taking sides, but he's got a point."

" _Espèce de_ -"

"Alfred, you are always taking sides and poking your nose where it does not belong, _вы_ _любопытный идиот_."

" _What_ did you just say?"

Hands slamming onto a table.

At that same moment, the door opened, a petite brunette woman entering the room. She looked confused, as the room seemed completely chaotic. She had heard the shouts and sounds from the moment she stepped out of the elevator, and she was surprised right then. She had thought this was supposed to be some sort of business meeting. Or political. She couldn't exactly remember, she was only here to deliver a message. Which would apparently prove a much harder task to do than she had thought at first. She looked around the room, trying to remember who was who - she had been at the reception when these people had come and claimed their rooms, but there were just so many names and faces that she had no clue who she was looking for. And as a further complication, it seemed that no-one had noticed her, even though the door had slammed shut behind her due to the wind. She tried to tap a calmer man (who was at least sitting) on the shoulder, only to find he was asleep. She scanned around the room, wondering if she could find someone who did not look too vicious or violent. Unfortunately, all she could see was the beginnings of fist-fights.

She almost turned back to the door when she heard it turned around, and saw a tall, broad man standing there with a look of exasperation in his icy blue eyes. He strode up to the end of the conference table, not noticing her. She could see he was about to yell, and covered her ears. Sure enough, not a minute later, she could hear his booming - accented, why did everyone have different accents? - voice resonate through the room. Less than two minutes later and a rather strange speech, everyone was settled back in their chairs - except two men.

"I don't care, Ludwig, but this bastard here said I always meddle in everything!"

"Alfred, I am merely-"

"Shut up, Ivan, I wasn't talking to you! Point is, I'm not going to let him insult me-"

The young woman decided to cough delicately at that point, before the room went into chaos again and she would have no chance of delivering the message. Everyone's eyes then snapped on her, as if seeing another human being for the first time. She shuffled her feet a bit, looking around for someone to address. Luckily, the German man spoke first.

"Yes, _fräulein_?" He asked, his voice much calmer than it had been a minute ago.

"I - there was a phone call for, uh..." she looked at the piece of paper on her hand, "a certain Arthur Kirkland. I - I was told he was here?" She hoped she didn't sound too apprehensive. She hoped the message wasn't for the loud-mouthed, rude American. She looked at the man, but no response came from him. Instead, a chair scraped against the floor as someone else a bit down the table stood.

"That would be me," he said, in a clearly English accent. She almost sighed in thankfulness, but decided not to seem impolite. She strode up to him, handing him the paper she had in her hand. She whispered a few words to him, that she thought relevant but may not be. She then quickly thanked the rest and apologised for disturbing the meeting, and swiftly got out of the room. That was the strangest meeting she'd ever seen.

Back in the conference room, Arthur read the paper again in confusion. Alfred, sitting next to him, almost read behind his shoulder, but at the last minute decided not to give Ivan the satisfaction of seeing him nosing into other people's business. Arthur sat back down, and slid the note into his folder without any comments, and the rest of the nations looked on, expectantly. Arthur noticed the silence, and then noticed the curious looks he was getting.

"What?" As he received no response, he huffed. "You lot are just nosy gits, aren't you?"

"Alfred must be dying to-" Ivan started, but Alfred cut him off immediately.

"Shut up now, if you know what's good for you!"

"Alfred calm down," Arthur said. "Did you see the poor girl enter, the look she gave you after you yelled at Ivan?"

"Well, it wasn't my fault, I wouldn't cause scenes if -"

" _Mon cher_ , what was in the note?" Francis said, leaning back in his chair.

"My boss only called and said that as soon as the meeting is over, I should call him back. That's all." Francis knew that the girl had said something to Arthur, which he had decided to leave out. He would bother the man later, when there were less ears about and he would be more likely to coax something out of the uptight man. Some nations then shrugged, while others simply went back to what they were doing before their small interruption. Ludwig was watching, and some control was kept on the nations. Though little could be done when a nation (Alfred) decided to insult another (Ivan) so far that they stormed out to sort it out themselves (fists).

After that, the meeting was adjourned, and the nations filed out of the room. Voices of different pitches, accents and emotions could be heard probably from the lobby. Francis stayed behind as Arthur was always a slower packer. He seemed to be distracted by a thought, as per usual, and Francis awaited patiently, leaning against the wall by the door. Arthur finally seemed to get his things into his suitcase, straightened his black suit jacket and tie, and turned around only to halt at the sight of the Frenchman. Francis simply smirked, because he knew that Arthur's scowl was the one that only he could obtain from him - and these days, it came without any effort on Francis' part. He simply needed to breathe in a 5-kilometre radius from Arthur, and the Englishman would know. Arthur then walked through the door, brushing past Francis and ignoring him completely. Francis followed him, not giving him the satisfaction of asking first. He knew this would annoy the other to no end, and it was just good that way. After five minutes of walking (they were now in the elevator), Arthur whirled on Francis.

"What is it you want?" He asked, arms crossed, an ever-present scowl on his features. His usual stance. If this hadn't been the case, Francis would probably not recognise the man, and he would perhaps even find the Brit handsome.

"Nothing, really. Except that I would like to know two things. The first, what did the girl tell you? And second, what did you not tell us about the note?" Francis asked, and Arthur sighed.

"You are horrendously inquisitive today, aren't you, frog?" Arthur asked, digging into his folder. He fished out the note, and handed it to Francis. "Here, have a read, knock yourself out. There's nothing on that note that I did not tell you, and the girl only said that my boss had called about ten minutes before I received this." Francis read the note.

" _When the meeting is over, call your boss to the following number ..."_

Arthur stretched his hand out, waiting for the other to hand him back the paper. Francis did, and at the annoyed look Arthur gave him, he only shrugged.

"I had to make sure you were not hiding anything from me," he said, in the honeyed accent of his country. Which Arthur called "horrible linguistic butchery". As an after thought, he added, "Although you are wearing a few too many layers, to my taste..." He grinned at the Brit's offended huff, and dodged the hand that had come to slap him over the head, instead landing on his arm. "It was a joke, Arthur!" When Arthur had gone back to his arms-crossed-hip-jutting-out-I'm-annoyed-at-you stance, Francis continued. " _Mon Dieu_ , Arthur, when was the last time you had a drink and loosened your tie?" Francis asked. Arthur shot a flaming glare at him.

"Francis, you were _there_ , you _saw_ it, and you even took _pictures_. No, I do not wish to see them! I am _not_ going drinking with you, ever." Arthur looked away, tapping his foot as he waited for the elevator to stop at the first floor. The meeting was held in London this time, and Arthur could not wait to get back home, make the damned phone call and put a kettle on the stove. Because he either needed tea or a whiskey. And he had decided not to start drinking at 4 o'clock, as much as that seemed appealing an idea.

_"Your boss told me to tell you personally that it may be urgent, and to me, he sounded... worried, I could say."_

The girl's words still rang in his mind. His boss was usually the most rational and calm man he had known in ages, and for him to sound panicked was a feat - he would always strive to sound professional and composed, even in informal conversations and when confronted with the most inflammatory insults. And the phone number scribbled on the paper in pencil was strange. He knew the number, but as he did not have his address book under hand, he hadn't been able to check what it was.

Francis had followed him to the lobby, because he was absolutely convinced that the tension between the two superpowers that had stormed out from the meeting _might_ be more than just hate. And Francis was certain he could find the two idiots somewhere down here. Arthur decided not to stay, and hailed a taxi. The ride back home was a much welcomed break, and he closed his eyes for a minute. World Meetings still baffled him: they were nothing more than an excuse to argue with each other (and it wasn't as if the nations didn't do that _anyway_ ), nothing was ever achieved, and everyone ended up going drinking every night. Which brought about even worse meetings. And they were a pain to organise. As soon as the car pulled to a stop, Arthur shoved the money into the driver's hand and made for his study as soon as he'd jammed the key into the door of the Victorian house.

He tapped the numbers into his phone, all the while flipping through the pages of the book that had been in his desk, trying not to let his eyes unfocus from the ache his head was now giving him. He studied each number he had, not finding the one he was looking for. He was on the second to last number (and frowning) when the phone answered.

"Prime Minister? It's me, Arthur."

" _Oh, yes, Arthur. It's good you called."_

"Where exactly are you calling from?" Arthur asked, finishing to go through his numbers. He had not found it in the book, and therefore was a bit surprised. Which did not help with his headache. He was sure he had almost every number of -

 _"I'm calling from your estate in Scotland."_ Why exactly was he there?

"Might I inquire why, exactly, you are calling from there?"

 _"Of course, I should explain. The Scottish First Minister called me this morning to inquire whether I had seen your brother, Allistair, anywhere. It seems as if he has left Scotland for no good reason, and without informing him of it. His estate was empty, devoid of a note, and we checked - the latest phone call he made was almost a week ago, though that was not his cell."_ Arthur had to fight the urge to snort. But why the two Ministers were so worried, he had no idea. It would not be the first time that Allistair might have woken up in an unknown place, with someone he didn't recognise, and a bursting head. He knew the Scot's tendencies. _"We called your other brothers, and they have no clue as to where he could be."_

"How long has he been gone for?"

_"It would soon be four, five days."_

"As long as it is not a month, there's no reason to worry. He's probably gotten lost somewhere, and it would not be the first time he vanishes for a couple of weeks. Prime Minister, believe me, he will be back by the end of the week. Good day." Without further conversation, he hung up. He massaged his temples, trying desperately to find an aspirin somewhere - _anywhere_. He might have been a tad curt, but his Prime Minister seemed to be fussing about him worse every day. Yes, alright, the House of Parliament was a bit of a mess these days, but wasn't almost everyone's governments a bit off these days? Business in the Middle East was not going as well as thought (much to Alfred's chagrin), and people were slightly fed up with governments messing about. But last he'd heard, Alfred's presidential elections were completely thrown off, Francis' Congress politicians were constantly giving each other trouble and everyone else was having some sort of little problems. It was nothing that Arthur hadn't seen a hundred times before. Literally.

Arthur made for the kitchen, and snatched a glass of water and an aspirin before he placed a kettle of water where it belonged. This was nothing new from the ordinary, and nothing would probably change for another hundred decades. Arthur sometimes thought that they could use a diversion, but usually, when it came to nations, diversions were just a turn for the worse. Scotland could do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he didn't bother Arthur.

Scotland had been acting up for a few years now, and Arthur could use a break from the insufferable git. He was usually debating who was worse - him, or Francis.

His phone began to ring. Arthur hoped to heaven and hell and then back that this was not one of those 'speak of the Devil' moments, because he would probably be much gladder if Satan himself came to have a cup of tea. It was a gentle bell sound, but in Arthur's state of unrelenting headache (aspirins were bloody slow), it seemed an atomic bomb had detonated right outside the kitchen (if atomic bombs rang). He was arguing with himself the reasons why he should leave it, but in the end, the wish to just answer it only to hang up immediately was just too tempting.

"What?" He spat, and as soon as he heard the Frenchman, he stiffened.

" _Arthur!_ " Arthur groaned.

"This better be very good, frog." Arthur said, not even hiding his irritation. "Francis, I swear to the highest powers that are up there, I will _not_ hesitate to punch you tomorrow. I have a blasted headache that is not letting up -"

" _Arthur, you are way too stressed! You must relax once in a while_. _You have to come, Alfred said he would pay._ " Arthur mumbled something in answer. Francis grinned, and Arthur knew that the Frenchman would not leave him alone until he agreed, so he decided to give in while his poor mind did not hurt too much. He didn't need the annoying pitch of Francis' voice to give him an incurable headache, after all.

"Fine, fine, but don't you dare get me completely smashed." After one thought, he added. "Do not take your cellphone."

" _Arthur?_ " No response. " _Angleterre, are you still there?_ " A grunt. " _It will be fun, I tell you! And I promise I will not take pictures."_ A huff.

"You do know you are the last person on this planet I would ever trust."

Francis snorted. " _C'est ça, et moi, je suis la reine d'Angleterre,_ " he mumbled. Ah, he knew the Englishman may not say it, but he would trust Francis with his life. After all, over a millennium of fighting, wars, and in the last century, alliances, there was not a single thing about him that Francis did not know.

"I bloody well hope you aren't, because otherwise my country has gone to the dogs."

Francis did a double-take. " _Since when do you know how to speak French?_ "

Arthur rolled his eyes, an unimpressed look on his face. Though Francis couldn't see it, he probably could guess it. "If I recall correctly, it would be end of 16th, beginning of 17th Century, I would say." Francis was surprised. For hundreds of years, he hadn't known that Arthur could speak his language, and now he found out that all his insults had been understood. Arthur continued, "Oh, and frankly, ' _t'es con comme tes pieds_ '? If that's the best you can do, frog, then you better revise your insults."

Francis smirked. Apparently, Arthur _had_ missed out on all the good insults. And his accent was horrible. And he told him that, obtaining a scoff for his troubles. " _Well, I am outside your door, and the taxi is waiting."_

Arthur almost yelled at the Frenchman for coming uninvited (Arthur could very well find his own taxi!) but he heard the knock at the door, and decided to just punch him when he came in. Arthur slammed the receiver down, and violently flung the door open. He decided not to make good on the promise he made to himself as he had to remember that whether or not there was a frog in his yard, he still was a gentleman. Instead, he could silently glare at the man, and await an explanation.

"Arthur, why do you look so sour? I am here to take you outside, before you become the 'stereotype British grampa' Alfred said you would soon turn into." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Do _not_ make me regret this, or there will be hell to pay." Pulling his coat on, he was almost out the door when he heard a crack from the upper floors of the house. He whipped around, and was halfway on his way to the staircase when Francis decided to interject.

"Arthur, really, what now?" He sighed. "It was nothing, I'm sure. This is a three-hundred-year-old house - at least - and if I inspected my house every single time a sound happened I would never leave it!"

Arthur glared. "I don't think you ever hear the sounds, because you're too busy _making_ them."

Francis chuckled. "Well, _Angleterre,_ you seem very interested in noises, so-"

"Don't even think about it." At that, Francis laughed. It was always entertaining to see the Briton's reactions. He placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and directed him back towards the door. Before Arthur could protest, he had been shoved right back into the taxi and the car on its way to where the other nations had gathered for the evening. He hoped he could just show up, have perhaps one scotch, and leave and call it an early night. And perhaps check upstairs later.

But Arthur and drinking never mingled well.


	2. All The Small Things

_"In headaches and in worry_  
_Vaguely life leaks away,_  
_And Time will have his fancy  
_ _To-morrow or to-day."_

_\- Wystan Hugh Auden_

Flinging the curtains shut, Arthur fell ungraciously into one of the plush armchairs of his library. He was in his library, because it was the darkest and most silent place in his house. Even now, he could see a glimmer of sunlight burning a glowing line into the parquet floor, not to add the flicker of the small candle he had taken with him flashing violently in his sight. Closing his eyes didn't help - the migraine (as he called it, not wanting to admit it was a hangover) would simply make itself more known with his sight gone and other sense heightened. Even the plush armchair, usually the most comfortable (and his favourite) place in the house felt like wooden, uncomfortable and hard.

He felt ill, he felt sick, he felt heavy and groggy and...

He felt just about ready to kill Francis.

Empty promises was all the frog could ever give, that much he'd always known. For some reason, last night had gone downhill fast (more so than usual). By the time that Francis and Alfred were slurring and just about ready to collapse, unconscious, onto the floor of the pub, he had already downed almost a full bottle of scotch. Though he prided himself in the fact that he was usually very good at holding in his liquor, but even the most heavy-weight nations in the pub (Ludwig, Ivan and himself, mainly) had somehow gotten tipsy in less than an hour, and been spilling their guts by the end of the night. Or maybe not, they might have done a lot more different stuff, seeing as Arthur had _no recollection_ of the evening. He could only hope that the Frenchman had been so drunk that he hadn't had even half a mind to pull out a phone, or otherwise record the evening, because for all he knew, he had done atrocious and unspeakable things. But he also did pray that for all he knew, he had collapsed very shortly. Though that was highly unlikely, what with the headache and all.

He would strangle Francis.

Tomorrow, though. when his brain could support something like that. Because right now, he would probably manage to kill himself by trying to. If not physically, then at least mentally. That was also the reason he had postponed today's meeting to the following day, as he sure as hell would not be hosting, let alone participating, to the conference. And he could be certain that he wouldn't be receiving any complaints from a select few nations.

He should get something to drink, like water or tea, but he did _not_ want to get up and spend all the effort-

_Crack._

The sound was a piercing one, almost shattering his eardrums, and stabbing at his pounding head. What it actually was, was a soft, barely audible glassy crack, a window splitting only slightly because of heat, which probably would have gone unnoticed had its auditor been in a regular state of mind.

Arthur was not, and despite his headache, he would kill whatever caused this. Shoving the ache to somewhere less prominent in his mind, he knew it came from at least one floor higher. Perhaps the attic. Checking every window and mirror on the first floor - or second floor, as Alfred always referred to it - and then he made his way up to the attic due to the unfruitful result of his search. Arriving upstairs, he was determined that whatever had caused that sound would never see the light of day again. Not that it was seen often in England anyway, but the point was still there. Arthur looked around himself, eyes flashing dangerously as they scanned the room.

Nothing. The window was fine, everything -

Oh. He'd almost forgotten he even owned it. He walked up to the covered object, throwing the white sheet off it.

He sighed. It had been such a long, long time he had seen this - he couldn't remember how long. But what he did remember was whom it had belonged to, the story behind it. The tall mirror, its ornate copper frame, its glinting glass, ever-clear. Not a trace on it, perfectly smooth and shiny as ever. The bright light from outside shone on it brightly, its dimmed frame almost glowing gently.

The Mirror of Rose.

He'd owned the mirror for a thousand years, but it was only in the beginning of the Elizabethan era that it had finally gone to use.

* * *

_A dark, delicate frame, the cape swishing behind her. Five days in a row he had seen her, and five days in a row he had attempted to follow her. Today was the day he would find out what she was after. Always vanishing around corners and losing him, she was perhaps the most intriguing thing Arthur had seen in his centuries-long life. He decided that today, he wouldn't give a damn about trying to be stealthy and avoid guards - they were too close t the castle for safety, and he was supposed to stay inside it, but if she managed, every day, to get past everyone, so would he. Her footsteps were almost inaudible, the soft taps of her bare feet crunching lightly the fallen leaves the only indication to movement. Tonight, he had followed her so far. He would follow her to the end, through the forest thicket she had just penetrated._

_He did._

_She reached a clearing, one where the moon shone gently onto the forest floor. Her cape floated gently in the soft wind. To him, this was no strange thing - he'd been in the clearing before, hiding out, spending time thinking, practising. When he just needed to escape, get away from dealing with the country. He was seventeen, for God's sake! (Seventeen years physically and in appearance only, yes, but still.)_

_She lifted her arms to her sides, parallel to the forest floor, her palms turned to the heavens. He couldn't see her face, her back was turned to him. Suddenly, a gush of wind blew her hood from her head, letting her light hair fall free. At the same time, leaves from all around began swirling. And it was most definitely not natural swirling. He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get a better look, but a twig snapped._ (Every time he remembered this, Arthur chuckled. It was such a cliché.) _She immediately whipped around, ready to take off in fright, but he stepped out. She froze._

_"Why come you here every night?" he asked. She was too scared, too frightened to answer. She was certain she would pay the price of carelessness now. He smiled softly to reassure her. "I will not tell of what I saw." He stepped a bit closer to her._

_"Who are thou?" she asked, her gentle voice like satin to his ears. It was a melody of its own. "And why would you protect me?"_

_"Because telling would be my own end at the same time." It was not true, but he wanted to gain her trust. "I am Arthur of Kirkland, at your service." She looked at him, slightly suspicious still. "Might I inquire your name?"_

_"For you, I shall be Rose."_

_"Then Rose you shall be."_

_The rest of the night, they had talked and laughed, but always kept their voices low. Arthur had told her of his magical capabilities, and together they had compared and measured each other's skills. She had told him she was from a nearby village, and he had told her he lived in the castle. When the moon had gone down behind the trees, but the night was not completely over, they had sneaked into the castle past a sleeping guard, and into one of the dungeons. Here, below everything and everyone, he had kept his grimoires and spellbooks, his potions, everything he'd ever made that related to magic. The only non-magical object that had remained in the room was the mirror, which he had never used except for checking the door or to test its strength in returning magic, the spells rebounding once very badly off the walls and denting them. There were still a few nooks that could be seen from one of these spells._

_Though Arthur had seen nothing in the plain-framed mirror, she immediately became transfixed with it. She let her hand roam the smooth surface. He had received it from the Chinese emperor some two or three hundred years ago, and he had developed the amalgam surface to be clear as a lake and to shine as a diamond. She immediately began wondering about what the mirror could behold, ranging from spirits and ghosts to powerful dark magic. Once he told her he had never found a thing out of normal (or boring) with it, her eyes lit up._

_"Should we make something more of it?"_

_They worked until morning, thinking of what they should do with it. Most magic, the mirror repelled, and enchanting it would prove more complicated than first thought. Sometimes, they would resolve only to decorate and forge the mirror's frame, until it was ornate with delicate shapes. Both of them knew something was missing, but neither knew really what._

_An hour before sunrise, they had decided to attempt to make the mirror into a doorway. Doorway to what? Neither knew._

_Come morning, they were exhausted, but the enormous load of energy that had been taken from them was now inside the mirror. It was now a magical object, but inconspicuously so. He was about to leave and sneak her back out of the castle before anyone awoke, but turning around, they saw an armed corps of guards._

* * *

Arthur remembered clear as day what had happened afterwards. The confusion, their imprisonment, she, fighting for her life in their hands, them, who had seen Arthur's and Rose's magic. The same day, the guards had explained to the Queen herself how they'd heard loud sounds only to find them practising 'satanic' magic. The Queen had ordered his release due to his status, but had her executed as an example.

He looked at the topmost point on the mirror. A copper English Rose bloomed there eternally, and where the mirror had once been incomplete, he had found the perfect final ornament. He looked away.

As he did so, his eyes caught a glimpse of what was not right - he knew by heart the way the sun should glint off the glass, but somehow it was now twisted. Looking back at the glass, he examined every corner of it; and there, in the top, left corner, he found it, running his finger along the hairline crack. The glass was extremely strong, reinforced over the years by magic and time. But now, as it had cracked...

Arthur threw the sheet back on it, and made his way downstairs. Magical or not, it was still just a mirror. He would watch the mirror for the next few days, but he wouldn't do anything until then. He didn't want to alarm anyone yet, though he knew more than he did back then.

His phone rang somewhere in the house, and he went off on search for it.

* * *

Alfred groaned.

This was the last time he listened to Francis, especially when he proposed something involving alcohol. He remembered going to the bar - or pub, or whatever it was called (he couldn't remember what the place even looked like) - and nothing really after that. He reached out to his bedside table to take his phone in hand, which he remembered leaving in his room before the meeting. He would call someone and tell them he wouldn't show up to the meeting. He'd call Arthur.

Alfred had a hangover, and he was sore everywhere, so he had every right in the world to piss the Briton off. He wanted to snicker at the thought, but thought against it because of the pounding in his head. His hand finally grasped what he was looking for, and he clicked his phone on. The first thing that flashed on it brightly (obnoxiously so to his pained eyes) was a message from Arthur (or Scones as he had called him on his contact name).

_Today's meeting is cancelled._

Alfred sighed in relief. He then noticed that the window's curtains were open, and went to shut them.

Good. It was dark.

He turned back to his bed, yawning. If there was nothing to do today - and he sure as hell wasn't visiting London - he might as well sleep the hangover off. He went to the side of the bed, and fell on his back, arms spread.

Which just happened to be the worst thing to do at the moment.

His arm dropped onto something - something that was definitely not soft, cotton, or a bed sheet. And that something grabbed his arm in a vice-like hold, flipped him around, and before he knew it, he was lying on his stomach, face pressed into his pillow, and his arm violently twisted behind his back between his shoulder blades. He let out a pained cry, though it was muffled by the pillow. A million thoughts flew in his head. _Who is that? Why are they here? In my room?_ And more generally, _What the fuck?_

"One move or sound and you are _dead_." He froze. At the same moment, he felt the person shift on top of him, and then he felt what he knew to be the barrel of a gun press against his head. He knew that voice. And he would know the voice even if the person was muffled in a burning house 500 miles away from him. And that was actually exactly where Alfred wanted that person to be at the moment. He wanted to respond but he couldn't very well do so - his voice was muffled and he'd probably receive a bullet through his brain. The gun cocked. "Who are you?"

Alfred turned his head. "It's me, you dumb fuck!"

" _Что ебать?!_ " Ivan released the pressure on him, and took the gun slightly away from his brain. "Alfred?"

"No shit, Sherlock."

Alfred squirmed a bit, and Ivan took that as the cue to move off of him. He went back to the window whose curtains Alfred had just closed, and opened them again. Alfred had buried himself underneath both sheet and pillow, the only things visible were his bare arms, holding the pillow for dear life. Ivan chuckled lightly. Alfred mumbled something.

"I cannot hear what you said, _comrade_." He knew Alfred hated that word. That's why Ivan called him that. Alfred un-buried himself. Slightly.

"I said, what the hell are you doing in my room?" Ivan looked around the room, holding his silence. He could feel Alfred glaring at him. And growing more and more annoyed. "Ivan?"

"Yes."

"Are you deaf?" Alfred asked, and it was almost like venom was just about ready to drip from his voice.

"Well, I just find it funny how you seem to have the exact same suitcase as I do. And apparently the same clothes as mine, lying around. Oh wait, those aren't mine, they're just yours."

At that, Alfred flipped around, quickly taking in his surroundings. Pain shot up his spine, but he ignored it. He most certainly did not have the same boring suitcase as Ivan did. He had the best one, it had stickers from all the places he'd ever travelled to - and he couldn't see it anywhere in the room. But, sure enough, those were his shirt, trousers, and underwear on the floor. He looked to the bedside table, and that was not his white iPhone. It was a black one, and it _was not his_.

The look of panic and terror that crashed upon Alfred's young features made Ivan laugh. He wasn't stupid. And he probably remembered more from the previous night than the American did. Alfred glared at him, and while Ivan was almost bent in half, laughing, Alfred had swiftly shed out of the bed sheets and picked up his clothes, dressing at near light-speed. He looked for his hotel room key, and found it in his jeans' pocket. He dashed out of the room, muttering a "shut up" to Ivan. He could still hear him laughing slightly when he got out of the room. He was even on the wrong floor. He made way to the elevator (his soreness by now very accented), punching his floor, and waited impatiently. He refused to think more about what happened before he was in his room. And had somewhere to sit. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Alfred stepped out and walked as fast as he could without hurting himself too much. Francis had just come out of his room, and saw the limp Alfred was trying to hide.

"Shut up, or I'll have roasted frog as dinner." He brushed past Francis, who couldn't help but think how similar Alfred and Arthur actually were when they were annoyed. One could see Arthur had raised the loud and brash American, though only occasionally. He smirked. He turned around to walk, but suddenly felt a sharp pain in his calf and yelped.

Alfred thought that was exactly what he deserved for getting him drunk and letting him make stupid decisions. Alfred reached his room, and as soon as he had flung the door open, he shut it loudly and collapsed on his bed, face first. He was still exhausted and had a headache. And other aches. He groaned. He still did not want to think about what had happened, even though he now had little flashes of last night coming back at him. He reached for his phone, and he knew the first number he had on speed-dial. No, wait, Arthur was second. Starbucks was first. He brought the phone to his ear, face still in the pillow. After a number of rings, he heard the voice he wanted to hear.

" _Alfred, what do you want? I messaged you to tell you the meeting was cancelled."_

"Mhmmphf." His face was _still_ pressed into the pillow.

_"Alfred, if you are eating one of those bloody burgers, do swallow before speaking. And really, it's eleven in the morning. Are you having them for breakfast? I swear, sometimes you make no sense -"_

"Arthur that wasn't a burger, I haven't even had breakfast." Which reminded his stomach to grumble at the same moment. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side and sitting on the edge of his bed. He heard silence. "Yeah well I slept in a bit, I've got a headache," Alfred explained. He knew the former empire would be worried if he had not eaten yet. And, technically, he should be worried.

_"Yes, so do I. But why would you call me?"_ He could sense Arthur's growing irritation.

"I did something stupid."

A scoff. _"Really, now? Care to elaborate? Because I've seen you do a lot of stupid things in your life. Really, that is no news to me. But what stupidity could you possibly do while you are in London, away from everyone except us? That's a new feat, you usually only do stupid things when you are near your own government."_

"Well, yeah, but, I mean this is like really stupid and it was because I was near another nation and I mean me and alcohol just - I'm still underage in America, technically, but only by like a year! But I kicked Francis because it's actually all his fault, because he took us out drinking, and he's you know the problem, but it's because of him I did it and now I don't want to see him again and I just wanna get a ticket out of here-"

_"Alfred, stop, you're not making any sense."_ A sigh. Alfred's use of grammar only got worse every passing day. _"I must say, thank you for kicking Francis, but would you like to tell me why you did so?"_

"Well, you know how yesterday we went drinking?"

_"No, I don't, I created a clone to go there while I sat at home, drinking tea. Of course I do, you git, I was there!"_

"Well I got really drunk, didn't I?"

_"Yes, I'd have to say that yes, you did."_ Alfred thought he heard Arthur trying to stifle a laugh. He really didn't want to anything more about what he had done last night.

Alfred took a breath. "Well I don't remember much about yesterday but all I know is that today I - Ididn'twakeupinmyroomandIslepwivvan." The sentence went from bad to worse as it progressed, the last part being muttered beyond comprehension, though Alfred thought he had just said it slightly faster and that Arthur would understand it.

There was momentary silence on the other side of the line. " _Alfred, I couldn't catch a quarter of what you said."_

Alfred sighed. "I think I may or may not have perhaps done something as stupid as to maybe - just maybe -"

" _Spit it out already!"_

"- may have slept with Ivan."

There was, yet again, silence on the Brit's end of the line. Alfred tapped his foot, trying to decipher what Arthur was going to say (it wasn't easy for Alfred to do that in person, let alone over the phone). " _Is that why you kicked Francis? Did he notice your limp?"_

"Art, that's not the - hey!" Alfred was now actually offended. "Why would you assume that I was the one to-"

" _Oh, please, drop it already, Alfred. The guy's bigger than you and I'm pretty sure that just about literally half of the world has slept with you. People talk."_

Alfred muttered something about 'gossiping around tea', but continued. "That's not true," because he did not go around sleeping with everyone, "and that's not the point."

" _So you need my advice on what to do,"_ Arthur stated. Alfred hadn't even said that, but apparently Arthur guessed well. _"Answer this for me: what_ can _you do?"_

"Uh... I don't know, take a plane home, tell my boss to order a trade ban on Russia, cut off all contact with the damn country, and maybe if he starts being an ass -"

_"Alfred."_

"What? I'm serious? Maybe I should just blow him off the map-"

_"I'm sure you've blown him enough already."_ It took Alfred a moment to comprehend, and when he was about to yell at Arthur and slam the phone down the other continued. " _I do spend too much time around Francis. But I am just as serious as you think you are. You cannot do anything, and you won't do anything. Tomorrow, you will show up at the meeting, just as per usual, and you will not do or say anything to Ivan, because I, for one, wish to not start a bloody world war. God knows we've had enough of those already."_

"But Arth-"

_"Alfred, do shut up. I shall see you tomorrow at the meeting. You can be sure of that, because you will be there. Good-bye."_

Before Alfred could say anything, his former caretaker had hung up on him. He had hung up on him, after telling him he had to basically walk the walk of shame. Alfred let out a long, drawn out mix between a whine and a groan and fell onto his back. He heard a knock at the door, and immediately responded to whoever it was to go away. In not such a polite way.

Little did he know, he'd left the door open.

"Al, what the hell?" Matthew's voice came from the door. Alfred turned and looked at the other blond for a moment in complete confusion, before remembering this was his northern brother.

"Oh, Matt. Um... Go away," Alfred said, falling back on the bed. He really did not want anyone right now. He had to think of the best way to avoid going to the meeting while still not getting an angry Englishman on his tail. Because when Arthur said something and didn't get it, he was out for blood. That was probably remnants from his pirating days. Or Empire. Both were just as greedy. And though Alfred rarely admitted this, he had often been scared by Arthur's anger - when it was really bad, it was _really_ bad.

"Al, are you okay?" Matthew had gone with the other nations the previous evening, but he handled his liquor much better than Alfred. Alfred probably had a hell of a hangover now. "I heard you slam the door. Actually, I think the entire hotel did." Alfred had not realised he had made so much noise. Whoops.

"Oh, that. I just... slammed the door, because, well, I was - um -angry at it, because... I ran into it." Why exactly was he lying?

"Al, though I know you're a great liar, that's your worst performance yet." Matthew remembered well the days from the Cold War, when Alfred had been so paranoid that he had spied on his own people. He had actually joined the CIA. Under the name "Alfred F. Jones" (very subtle). Without Eisenhower's knowledge. Not that it had been a brilliant plan, but apparently he had done a lot there. After the disaster of the Bay of Pigs (1), and when Kennedy was President and had found out and Alfred had been out of reach for six months, but that had not stopped him from continuing the activities afterwards. Matthew personally suspected that Kennedy had _grounded_ Alfred. He almost laughed out loud at the thought, but as he saw Alfred's look he decided against this. "Alfred?"

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" The whine was just a little too much for Matthew's slightly sensitive head (he had grown accustomed to Alfred's loud voice. This worried him slightly, and he would have to watch how much time he spent around his brother).

"Alfred, what's wrong?" Matthew asked, knowing that Alfred could sometimes be extremely thickheaded.

"Well, I don't know, I just sort of... I don't know." Alfred sighed. "Fine." He recounted the entire story to Matthew, as far he could remember it. Matthew showed slight surprise when he got to the 'plot twist' (Alfred had literally said: "plot twist, I woke up next to Ivan"). Matthew stayed silent for a moment after the story finished, and after a thought, he made a decision.

"I'll be back in a minute." He ducked out of the room, leaving behind a very confused Alfred. He tried to remember the correct room, and knocked on the door once he reached it. Francis opened, a smug look on his face, and ready to give his usual greeting. Once he saw that it was Matthew (after he had recognised who the man was) and saw the look of pure smugness on Matthew's face, his grin faltered slightly.

"Ah, hello, Matthew!" Francis' voice did not falter in the least. "Can I help you with... something?" He quirked an eyebrow suggestively, trying to deflect the subject.

"You know exactly what you can help me with," Matthew said, standing with his arms crossed and hip jutting slightly out, with a look of victory on his young face.

"So... Alfred told you?" Francis asked, a glint of fear flashing in his eyes as he realised the meaning of the situation. He could not come out of this, he would _die_ in the process! Well, not literally, but still.

"Oh, yeah. He did." And with that, Matthew turned on his heels. Right before he was about to make his way back to comfort poor, traumatised Alfred, he turned back. "Just in case this wasn't clear before, I win."

Francis made a sound between a groan and a huff. " _Je sais, je sais._ " He'd sort of guessed. But he couldn't focus on such trivial matters, he had to save his own skin! He could not hold up his part of the bet, he couldn't, he couldn't, he-

He could try to something. He _most certainly_ would _not_ be seen walking around at tomorrow's world meeting with _Crocs._ No way in heaven and earth would he commit the abomination. He still remembered the day he and Matthew had made the bet, and right now, he couldn't decide on any day he regretted more.

* * *

_Matthew, Francis and Arthur watched as Ivan and Alfred glared at each other from the opposite sides of the table. The three of them had sat together, near the door, because they wanted to have as quick an escape route as possible if need be._

_"How long are they gonna keep this up?" Matthew asked._

_"Grammar, Matthew, please. Alfred's bad enough, please do not make me correct you also," Arthur shot back._

_Matthew rolled his eyes and looked at the Frenchman, who muttered something about 'stuck-up' and 'as bad as Austria'. Matthew shrugged, and turned back to see Arthur glaring at the both of them. Apparently Francis was not as subtle as he thought. The other nation only grinned smugly. Maybe he had intended it so._

_They had conversed long enough to allow Alfred and Ivan work up enough argument to be now standing both on each side of the table. Alfred was spouting something about "communist illogicality" (how he knew a word like that, none of the three knew) and "useless to fight". Ivan was shooting back about "American incompetence" and "Korea serves as proof enough". Of course, in the midst of that, there were the usual insults. It was clear that the world was divided into the two blocs that had been plaguing the world since '45. On one side sat America, surrounded by Japan and Germany, with other European nations sat near him. The three nations that would make a quick disappearance if need be were on Alfred's side, but still, were nearer to the door than America himself. Other nations such as South Korea and South Vietnam were also on his side, glaring at their northern halves. Ivan had Gilbert very close-by, who flinched every time the Russian's hand moved towards the inner pockets of his great coat. The rest of the Eastern bloc, North Korea, China, Cuba and North Vietnam all sat with a vicious stance on their side. Some more out of necessity than actual hostility, such as Elizaveta, who was making doe-eyes at Roderich.  
_

_Why both Alfred and Ivan wore their full military uniform, none of them were quite sure, except if it was to show pride or something._

_At one point, Kiku stood calmly and pointed out to America that the situation in Korea was bad enough as it was, and that Japan was close enough to the war-zone as it was without having Ivan or Yao feeling the need to attack America more directly (meaning Japan). Alfred paused for a moment._

_"This is_ not _over," he spat as he sat back down._

_"Oh, it definitely is not, comrade," Ivan sneered back._

_Arthur took that as his cue to present his points, as it had been his turn for almost half an hour, and the podium was open. Matthew was left with Francis._

_"Oh, look at them. Kiku and Alfred do have a thing going on, I am certain of it."_

_Matthew looked at Francis. "And I know for a fact they don't."_

_"Oh, I could have sworn. It just seems so, because the moment when Kiku spoke, Alfred calmed down - which is a feat to achieve."_

_Matthew snorted silently. "Trust me, if you heard Alfred, you'd know they have nothing going on. Alfred barely speaks of Kiku. On the other hand, he seems obsessed with Ivan. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if any day soon they end up doing something. You can just see it."_

_It was Francis' turn to snort. "Really? Alfred and Ivan? I am the country of love, and that is most certainly nowhere near love."_

_Matthew had an idea. "Wanna bet?" He turned more fully to Francis. "If Alfred and Ivan act on it, I win. If Alfred and Kiku act on it, you win."_

_"And what shall we bet?" Francis asked. "I propose that if I win..." He thought. "If I win, you will wear nothing but American flag-patterns for an entire world meeting. Otherwise, what fun is it if no-one can see it?" Francis grinned at the look of disgust on Matthew's face._

_"But if I win, you wear Crocs for a world meeting." Matthew looked devilish._

_Francis shuddered, but still accepted. "You are on,_ mon ami. _" Francis smirked. Prepare to be humiliated. Francis was the expert in love, and Matthew was only a novice. Oh, he would have fun seeing Matthew being so uncomfortable._

* * *

From now on, he would never underestimate the Canadian again, nor would he put anything past Alfred. The two North American brothers were more unpredictable than he'd given them credit for. Now, he only tried to think of a way out.

But not before he spread the rumour wide enough.

Let's see... Arthur would already know from Alfred, and so would probably a bunch of the Eastern nations - Gilbert would find out from Ivan about immediately and then tell Germany, who would tell the Italies (not simultaneously, but the word spread quickly). Especially when the entire world was gathered in a hotel and two floors, it was a heck of a small world. Hell, he probably would not a find a single nation who didn't already know. And he had to think of something before the following day. It was too late to book a plane ticket and make it to the airport anyway, if he wanted to avoid having the Canadian on his tail. The young man was always very serious when it came to betting, gambling, anything like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Что ебать - what the fuck
> 
> Je sais, je sais - I know, I know
> 
> Mon ami - my friend
> 
> (1) The Bay of Pigs Invasion was a CIA plan in 1960, when Eisenhower was still President. The plan was to attack Cuba with air strikes, land troops and paratroopers into the Bay of Pigs in Cuba, and another smaller force on the east coast to create confusion at the second attack. These troops would then march on Havana and overthrow Castro's government. As you can imagine from the adjective "disaster", this did not go well: the plan soon became common knowledge among Cuban exiles in Miami, and Cuban intelligence alerted Castro. The air strikes were ineffective and missed their targets, the plan did not have any support in Cuba as they had enough of American involvement in their affairs (does this sound familiar? I think one of the characters is very similar...) and the Americans were met with a strong resistance force that was bit less than fifteen times bigger. By this time, Kennedy was President, and the captured troops were exchanged for goods. Kennedy stated that he wanted to "splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it into the winds". Direct quote, yes, as reported by the New York Times in '66.


	3. Hurricane

_"Do you really want me dead, or alive to torture for my sins?"_

_\- Hurricane, Thirty Seconds To Mars._

Oliver twirled the knife in his hands. Flip it up, flick it down, one, two, move, stab, retreat, throw - anything and everything while he was bored. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained grey. There was a distant scream somewhere, probably from more into the city. Or what would have been a city, if it had been in another universe. Oliver remembered what it was like in First World. He sighed. So many innocent and ignorant people, who did not understand that their nations existed, and that their sufferings had been because of these nations. How fun this all was going to be.

How messy.

Because that's what they all did best - messy, unclean, stained. Especially if the stains were red. A smile stretched across his face. He glanced at the mirror. What an idiot his 'brother' was. He had created a mirror, a portal. One time should have been enough, but apparently Arthur still had not learnt that even sealing them behind a mirror was not enough. Well, true, last time it had not been the mirror, but it was still a portal, and Arthur should have known that he was not the only one with magical powers, and not the only one who could get the portal working. Though his brother - as Oliver usually called him, though they were basically unrelated twins (that made no sense, but he had no better description for it) - had shackled most, but not all, of Oliver's magical powers, he hadn't thought about how Oliver, once he discovered where they were, would obviously get them back. And Arthur was so stupid that he had restrained the magical power into a potential portal. If Oliver shattered it, he would managed to gain his powers _and_ an access to the other world. Jackpot, basically.

He stood up, and took the knife carefully into his grip. He glanced back at the mirror, and carefully dug it into the corner where he had made the thin cut. He had to be more careful than ten minutes ago, when he'd decided to just stab the mirror. It sounded like the thing had decided to crack completely through - and it almost had. He had been about to stab it another time (after he had made certain he hadn't quite broken the thing yet, he had to make sure Arthur was gone), he saw the shadows of two, three fingers on the glass, tracing the cut. He had stopped, waited until they were gone, and now took action once again. He followed the cut again, and again, each time getting the knife deeper. He then drew another line, and repeated the process, until he finally could carefully take the chip away from the mirror. He could only see black, like a smoking depth, not solid, liquid or gaseous. It was fuming and frothing, but Oliver didn't care about that. There were only two things he cared about at the moment.

One was the sounds coming through the fog.

Two was the small tingle trickling through his body.

He now faced his palm to the dark, clammy mist, and when he felt the twinge course through him, he knew he had what he needed for now, but it was not nearly enough to do what he wanted to do. Suddenly, the sounds wafting through the fog became louder, and he could hear it was his counterpart. Probably speaking on the phone. He heard the pacing, the tones, the voice, the comments. He sat back into the chair that he had next to him, wherein he had sat a few minutes earlier. Oliver then decided he was bored, and wanted to see some action happening around the house. He knew the other counterparts of the nations were nearby, somewhere around the "city", and so he did the only thing he thought of.

"Allen!"

He heard a loud _thump_ and very colourful curses. If the man wanted to stay in this house anymore, he would have to clean his mouth. Oliver paused his train of thinking.

_We're not staying in this place longer, anyway._

"Allen!"

The man stumbled downstairs, his glasses askew and his hair mussed. He'd clearly been asleep. Well, that would have been very much fun to see, Oliver was disappointed he had missed it.

"What the f-"

" _Allen_."

"Fine. What d'you want?" His baseball bat, covered in rusty (or maybe bloody) nails was in his hand, thrown over his shoulder. His eyes glared at Oliver, the crimson flaming.

"Come, now, Allen. It won't do to have you angry at me, when I am the one getting us out of here. You can then let out your anger on Alfred," Oliver said, a smile curling his lips twistedly.

Allen glared for a while longer, waiting for Oliver to speak again. Compared to his counterpart, Allen was quiet as a mouse. Mattieu was the loud one. It was a tad strange. But not really, when you thought about it.

"Well, as you can see, and hear, I have managed to chip a corner out of the mirror." Allen waited. "The moment Arthur's gone, when he is gone, I will ask you to shatter the mirror." Allen had stepped closer to it, to inspect the fog. He eyed it suspiciously. "That's just the portal. Anyway, I want you to alert your brother and Flavio. And Luciano at the same time, it's because of his thirst for revenge we're doing this. But those other two loudmouths will spread the news quickly enough on their own, so we don't have to do anything. And hey, that means that we get to sit here and wait for them to show up. Less work for us."

Allen rolled his eyes. "Fine. So we're doing this now? Are you sure everything will work? I don't want the same thing happening as last time."

Oliver smiled sweetly. "Of course, I'm sure! I managed to repair the damage on sight. No harm done - or well, there was, and that's good, I harmed him, he can't say anything. I've dotted the t's and crossed the i's." He stopped. "Wait, it's the other way around. I've crossed the t's..."

"Okay, I get it. I'll call 'em. Just keep yourself busy," Allen said. "And don't ever wake me up. _Ever_. Again."

"Okay, as long as you're not sleeping when I need your help," Oliver quipped.

Allen was gone, and Oliver was left to listen to the sounds from the mirror. He heard that the phone conversation was still going on, but was quickly brought to an end. He waited, nothing special happening. Allen came back down, and they sat in silence. Oliver started counting the seconds. He reached a bit over 600 before the first person crashed through the door. Mattieu dragged with him a sour Francois, and a very scary Dmitri. Though Oliver had known the Russian for many years now, he still was not used to the dark aura around him. He motioned for the new arrivals to have a seat, but do so in silence. So far, nothing interesting had happened, and the Brit had not yet left the house. But he would do so, he had to. And then, well. That was it sorted for the Second Players.

Soon, more people started to show up at the shack, and soon everyone was listening to Arthur _making tea_.

Something shattered, a string of unexplained curses came through ("oh bloody unicorn horns' stinging damn it", for example, which made absolutely no sense), and some stomping around the house. There was the sound of a phone receiving a message. Suddenly, there was a resounding _bang_ , and complete silence. Oliver stood, stepping closer to the mirror to hear better.

"Oliver, what-"

"Shut it, Matt," Allen hissed. Oliver paid them no attention. He listened for a while more´, and when he was certain that his counterpart had left, he grinned.

"Well, Allen, now is your turn to make history, no?"

The mood in the shack was suddenly sky-high, faces twisted in grins and smirks and smiles of all sorts, and when Allen drew the bat backwards, all held their breath.

Swing.

Hit.

Shatter.

The tinkling of glass to the floor, the cracks and clinks of the splinters as they hit the wood.

Oliver placed his hand on the darkened mirror's frame. "Who's first?" When no-one volunteered, he rolled his eyes. "It's _safe_ , idiots," he sneered at them. Seeing the distrustful looks around the room, he shrugged and walked right through the mist. The others could hear his amplified footsteps, though why there were footsteps in _mist_ wasn't completely clear to them. Less than a minute later, Oliver called back to them that it was safe, and he was already there. The first to step up was Allen, who after all, had been there to help Oliver get the damn mirror up. Damned if he didn't do something himself.

Soon later, all the rest of the Second Players had followed the Englishman in, and they all breathe in the clean, crisp air of First World - something they hadn't done for a long while. The clean air thing, that is. They had no recollection whatsoever of the last time they had seen this world, but it had also been a very long time since their world had had any sort of decent smell, except that of death. It was time to show their counterparts _what_ exactly Oliver and the rest of the parallel nations had been confined to. It was a sweet revenge that they would have. They would see their counterparts fall in ruins at the destruction of the world as they knew it. Oliver grinned, and he began walking towards the door of the attic, down the stairs, out the door (window, if he had to), and then there would start the fun. He stopped for a moment, turning back to the mirror and the other Seconds.

"Does everyone have any idea of what they are doing?"

"Airport, plane, and then we fight the system and fuck it up," Luciano smirked. The others laughed or grinned. It was finally time for some bloodshed.

Oliver grinned, and had an idea right before they left. Just adding icing to the cake, and the cherry on top was brilliant, in his opinion.

* * *

Arthur groaned at the sight of the message he had just received. What the bloody hell could Dylan want now? Wales had been fine for the last ten years, and now, when Arthur wanted to just sit and do nothing, then his brother had to go and message him. From Heathrow. What was he doing there anyway? Arthur had so many questions right now, and though Dylan was the one brother with whom he had least problems at the moment (and whom he disliked least in general), he still had many ideas of exactly how to greet the Welsh idiot who had decided to fly to London. He stepped into his car, and decided to drop Dylan off at the hotel where the rest of the nations were staying. The closer they were together, the more manageable they were. Spread out nations was the worst thing that could happen to anyone, anything, anywhere, and anywhen.

_That's not a word,_ Arthur thought, _but I basically invented the bloody language so I get to decide._

And no way was Wales staying at Arthur's. End of.

As he arrived somewhat later to the airport, Arthur checked his phone.

_Arthur, I'm at Heathrow, T5. Could you pick me up from here, I just arrived. I don't want to take a taxi, because I know you're in the city because of the meeting. Don't send a taxi. I know you. I expect to see you._

He had decided to go all-out difficult on Arthur, and he wasn't happy about it. And there was the reddish-blond git, standing there in his white dress shirt and blue jeans and luggage, _already_ annoying the hell out of England. He drove slowly, calming down for a minute, as Arthur knew that if he started this on the wrong foot, he would be again annoyed for as long as Wales decided to stay. He really didn't want to deal with "brotherly love" at the moment.

He stopped in front of Dylan, who saw him and wordlessly made his way to the passenger seat next to Arthur. The Englishman was tempted to just keep the doors locked and drive away, but refrained. His brother knew where he lived. The backseat door opened and the luggage was shoved in, door closed, the door to the passenger seat opened, and Arthur sat in silence.

"Hello, Arthur," the other said, as polite as possible. Arthur looked at him, slightly aghast. No " _sais diawl"_ or some other Welsh whatnot insult? Well, Arthur would try his best to behave. Try.

"Hello, Dylan. Er... why exactly did you decide to fly all the way over here?" Arthur asked. "I do have a telephone, you know."

His brother glared at him for a moment before answering. "Can't I just pay a visit to my dear brother?" Arthur snorted. "It's about Allistair."

"Yes, I know he's gotten lost again. Probably some long-legged blonde decided to lure him into her house and he doesn't remember or know where he exactly is."

"Just because you're not interested in women," Dylan shot back at him. Arthur gave him a death glare, because they both knew that that was untrue. And as they were nations, it didn't even work that way. "No, it's not that, I've no clue where he is, but what I do know is that he gave me a phone call, from his cell, I think."

Arthur tried hard not to look at his brother, because doing that on the highway wasn't a brilliant idea. It wouldn't do them any good if they both crashed and suddenly they're back up on their feet. "Um, when was this?"

"Couple - five days ago, I suppose."

"And... why didn't you tell my PM? I think he thinks that Allistair's last call was to a pizza restaurant, and that would be useful information," Arthur stated, and he knew he sounded slightly patronising to his older brother, but that was not the point now. And any way he could get back at his brothers, he would.

"He made me swear to only tell you if it came down to it."

"What exactly has he done? Theft? Murder? Animal sacrifice? Blown up the bloody palace?" Arthur was intrigued, though he knew the Scot's antics were not ones to be chased after.

"Well, I don't exactly know the whole story, just bits and pieces here and there."

Arthur waited in silence for his brother to tell him the entire story, which he did.

Allistair had, a few days ago, called Dylan from a telephone booth in Scotland.

_"Dylan, listen. I'm going to try to get to Arthur, but hey, you know me, I'm not very useful at these things." There was short laugh and a pause. "Don't ask me to give you a full story, but if you tell Arthur a few things, I think he'll know what I mean. I need you to tell him this IF I haven't contacted you in the space of four or five days, alright? Tell him this: The mirror was a bad idea, keep a close watch on it. That's all I need you to tell him. Thing is, magic's always been sort of my strong point, and I'm quite sure of what's going to - what's happened. And it's not good. Not good at all. That's all, as soon as I find him, I'll call you. If I haven't called you in five days, you go see him - don't call him, message him, see him." He muttered something that sounded like 'the more the better', and then sighed. "Well, I'll see ya soon, Con'. Gotta run." And he hung up._

Arthur looked blankly at Dylan. "What the hell was that about? Five days? A mirror? What mirr-" Arthur stopped mid-sentence and nearly swerved off the road as he had to stop behind a car he hadn't noticed. The realisation struck him at the exact same moment. "The mirror." Arthur looked out from the front window, taking in their surroundings as if it were the first time he truly saw them. So much building, so much new construction. He tore his gaze away from the building trucks. "How does he know about the mirror? And what the hell does he mean by that?" He looked sideways at Dylan, green eyes meting green eyes.

Dylan shook his head. "I've no clue what mirror you're even on about."

"Oh. Right." Arthur said, his eyebrows furrowing on his forehead. He would skip the detour by the hotel and head straight for his house. He would keep the mirror under very close monitoring, because if Allistair knew something, that he clearly couldn't call him about, and something to do with magic, then he would take his older brother's advice (he usually did, just not when it was completely idiotic). The rest of the car ride was silent, verging on uncomfortable, but they got through it. Arthur parked his car in front of his house, and headed straight for the door.

The door.

Arthur's hand shot straight for his hip, looking for a sword or a gun, anything. He cursed under his breath when he realised that his habits were slightly ridiculous, though right now, he would feel much better if he had a weapon underhand. Which he didn't.

And his door had clearly, very clearly been _touched_.

Dylan came up behind Arthur, and stopped as he saw his brother looking almost struck. Arthur then moved forward, and his hand glided over the lock and knob. He left the baggage standing next to him, and crossed his arms. If this was about Arthur's "friends", he would deal with them on his own after Dylan had found a nearby pub. Maybe he could coax Alfred into joining him, the American idiot would probably be up for it. He was always fun to watch when drunk, as he was always prone to embarrassing himself. Dylan snorted at the memory of the last time he had seen Alfred drunk, but when he saw Arthur crouch down and look through the keyhole, he just grew plain annoyed.

"Arthur, what the hell are you doing?"

"And that's why Allistair didn't teach _you_ magic. You wouldn't understand it, and you don't have it." Arthur stood and brushed off dust from his trousers. "Someone was in here, someone with magic, and I can list the people I know to have magical abilities using the five fingers I have on one hand."

Dylan shook his head in exasperation. "Just bloody get in, already, won't you? You can play detective after I've gotten settled in."

Arthur was about to turn around, but did a double-take at his brother's comment. "Ha! Funny, because you are most certainly not sleeping at my place. I'll drive you to the hotel later, just not now. Get that bag back into the car." As his brother was about to argue, Arthur continued. "Do you really want to annoy me now? When I've just arranged you to sleep somewhere where _I_ will not bug you and you'll have plenty drinking buddies." He continued under his breath, "Though I don't know how many would join you, considering yesterday." He dug his pocket for his key, and opened the door. He walked in, leaving his brother to fend for himself. He had bigger issues than that.

Who had been here, why, how, when, and from where were the questions he wanted answered _now_. He assumed that it would not be a thief, as mortals didn't have magic, as far as Arthur knew. Harry Potter was all nice and dandy, but Rowling had quite a wild imagination when it came to spells. If only it was so easy as to just having to swish a wand around and chirp a few Latin words. Arthur went through every window on the first floor and the second, but none of them showed any signs of break-in, or any traces of magic. Arthur stopped for a minute.

He then turned to go up to the attic, when the smell hit him. He coughed violently. It was as if a dead horse had been stacked up there. He went to his bedroom, looking through his bedside table and finding the gun he was looking for. This was not a funny joke, and he was better off prepared. He ignored the reek, and went up. As soon as he did, he cocked the weapon and lifted it to eye-level, bursting into it. The crunch of the glass under his feet was a first sign of warning. He was lucky he'd forgotten to take his shoes off when he came in, otherwise he would be in a hell of a lot of pain. He looked back up, and had to blink thrice before actually being able to process what on Earth had actually happened up there. The attic was a mess. Objects had been thrown around, as if a food fight had occurred, but with actual objects. There were a lot of stains on the wooden floor - many that he did not want to know where they were from. Some that looked suspiciously like blood. And most were footprints, clearly visible even against the dark wood. The sheet he had thrown over the mirror had clearly been stomped on multiple times, after being seemingly blown away from the mirror. And what had happened to the mirror that he had come to check up on was beyond comprehension. The glass was smashed and scattered around the floor, under Arthur's feet. Where the glass should have been, there now stood a wall. A stone _wall_. And what really caught his attention was what had been written across that wall (in a very suspiciously dark crimson colour).

_Si vis pacem, para bellum._

There was a paintbrush on the floor underneath the message, which also was covered in dark red. There was no irony smell in the attic, so Arthur assumed it was _not_ blood. He pulled out his smartphone from his pocket, and immediately switched the camera on and snapped a picture of the message. He knew what it meant, alright. His own navy used it! But why it was here, on a smashed mirror's _wall_ was a mystery to him. He examined quickly the attic for any clues, but he found nothing. Not that it would help him, when his mind was already occupied trying to crack whatever code that was.

_If you want peace, prepare for war._

Either the message was very clear or very ambiguous. Either it meant someone was about to attack him, or maybe it was an allusion to any one of many things. So many historical events had occurred that could be associated to the phrase, so many people, so many things in general. He decided to list the things he knew already.

Allistair knew something. He had warned Arthur about the mirror. There was something up with the mirror, which in fact was a magical portal. And someone had clearly come through. Someone had come...

Someone, or someone _s_?

He knew that Alfred was looking a lot into the multi-verse theory (though the American could be an airhead sometimes, the man did have an astonishing mathematical mind - he had seen only enough competitions between him, Ivan, and Ludwig to tell him that much), but no-one had ever really gotten any proof to it. The only instance he could think of where there was a possibility of a parallel universe was the existence of the Second Players. Every single nation knew their counterpart existed. The problem was exactly _where_. He shuddered at the memory of the last time he had seen any of the counterparts. He wasn't exactly sure when it was, but what he did know was that he was pretty damn sure he had sealed them off, and with no magical powers. None.

And that's when he realised that the problem was exactly there.

The mirror had been designed to be a doorway - a magical one, to another world, galaxy, universe, who knew? But he had made it so that the mirror led somewhere. And he, foolish as he was, had decided to go and seal off the Second Players into the mirror (wherever that was), and contain Oliver's magic within the mirror itself, as a safeguard. Of all the things he could have done! He hadn't been able to take away his powers, and he hadn't been able to attach them to an object further away than a doorway to the Second World into his own world, because Oliver had been on the other side of the portal then. But now, Oliver had figured it out.

And he knew that they were screwed. Royally screwed.

"Oi, Art!" Arthur flinched. He'd forgotten Dylan was here. "What the heck're you doing up there? You've been there for ten minutes, do I need to call an ambulance? Or - hey! Did you leave me the house in your will? Whoa - what on Earth smells so _rank_? I didn't know you had a kitchen up there," Dylan kept calling from below. Arthur just clenched his eyes shut, trying to calm down before whipping around and dashing down the stairs.

"Dylan, we're getting out of here." On the way to his bedroom, from the corner of his eye, he could see the confused look Dylan was giving him. He took a heavier coat, and made his way downstairs. Dylan wasn't -

"Arthur what the hell happened here? Did you have some sort of episode or something?" Dylan yelled. From the attic. Arthur groaned.

"I'll explain on the way!" Arthur shot back.

"Way where?" Dylan appeared into the stairs, and went into the hallway. His suitcase was there, and he picked it up. Arthur got out of the door, and went straight to his car, opened it, and waited for his brother to finally decide to follow him. It was getting somewhat darker already. "On the way, _where_?" He repeated, the frustration clearly coming through from his tone. Arthur sighed.

"The hotel. I'm going there, you're going there. You'll book a room, and I have to see a few people. I think. And tomorrow, you could show up to the meeting, if it suits you to." Arthur tapped the steering wheel, the radio silent, the fingers drumming an uneven rhythm. "Oh, and er... What had happened to my attic is, I think, what Allistair tried to warn me about." _God knows why he knew something would happen._

Dylan was silent for a minute, unable to draw the connection. "I suppose... But what exactly-"

"I don't know. I have a hunch, but I don't _know._ Though I do not think it will take a long time until we all know."

The rest of the drive was silent. Arthur pulled up at the classy hotel, and getting out of the car handed the valet the keys and strode into the reception. He made his way to the counter, immediately booking a room for his brother first, and after receiving the keys made his way to the lift. Dylan was waiting for him, as he knew that Arthur always took care of hotels and such. When the doors opened, Dylan wordlessly went off to search for his room while Arthur thought about what he should do next. Though he did not really need to, as everyone was basically coming and going out of each other's rooms already - or just standing in the corridor. The first to notice him was, of course, Antonio.

" _Inglaterra, ¿qué pasa?_ You look sour," the smiling Spaniard said, but Arthur could see the mischievous glint in the eye. Their shared history was definitely not something that Arthur cherished as a dear memory. "Not that you don't usually do."

"Antonio, really, I'd love to engage in a battle of wits, but I think you would have just as many chances to beat me at that as you'd have by fighting me with a dead chicken," Arthur shot back. He brushed past a number of other nations, trying to find someone reasonable and rational to talk to. There was a half-open door too his left, and he could hear some sounds from behind it - they sounded almost pained, and it was a voice he knew very well. He peeked into the room, and immediately wished he hadn't.

He cleared his throat, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the door next to him. "Alfred, if I could speak to you for a minute, if you're not otherwise... engaged, it would be great."

There was a string of curses and some scrambling, and what sounded like "Ivan, where the hell is my shirt?!" and after a minute, Alfred was standing in front of him, hair dishevelled, glasses askew, lopsided grin on his young face, and a five-sizes-too-big crumpled shirt hanging on his lean frame.

Arthur glared at him. "If you could close the door when you are - busy - that would make life much easier for everyone."

Alfred looked almost mortified, and there was a laugh - nearly a giggle - from the bed. Alfred's head snapped immediately in that direction, mouthed some words, and turned back to Arthur. "Could, uh, could we step out, so I can _close the door_?" That last part was aimed, once again, behind him. As Alfred shut the door, he turned back to Arthur. "So, what's up?"

"The ceiling," Arthur deadpanned. "Okay, I need you to help me. You have to spread the message to everyone that everyone's leaving. Book a plane, buy a train ticket, I don't care, but everyone has to have left by the end of the week."

"Why, did we annoy you too much?" Alfred asked, a childish laughter tugging at his lips. Arthur simply have his answer in the form of a glare. "Okay but why?" Alfred asked.

"I'll explain the reason to everyone of you tomorrow, during the meeting. Only tomorrow's is going ahead, all the rest of the meetings are cancelled. I'll have to tell Ludwig that, actually. But spread the message so that those who have to can have at least a week at most to get a way back home." Arthur looked pointedly at Alfred.

"What?" Always defensive.

"It's business season, and by definition busy, so you really should get moving as early as possible. After you have notified everyone else." Arthur was about to turn away, but instead decided to poke some fun at his former colony. "And a few more things. Firstly, I don't think that's your shirt. Second, please try not to be distracted while doing what I asked you to. Third, I thought you hated him. Fourth... Everyone's staring at you." As Alfred looked around, Arthur had to cover his mouth with his hand to hide the laughter edging its way from his throat. Alfred looked torn between saying something in his defense and just storming away. He seemed to choose the second option, as he entered the room behind him, letting the door slam behind him. Though that did not muffle neither the laughter nor the chatter coming from the corridor. Alfred leant against the door. As Alfred sighed, he heard a small laugh back from the bed, where Ivan was sitting all leisurely (and shirtless) and laughing.

"First," Alfred started, answering Arthur's points, "no, this is _not_ my shirt, because I don't know where mine is." He glared at Ivan, who seemed to be having the _time of his_ (soon very short) _life_ trying not to burst out laughing. Alfred would tackle him if he did. "Second, I won't be distracted because the distraction _won't be here_. Third, yes, I hate you, I spent the whole morning yelling at you -"

"Your Russian is getting better, Fredka," Ivan pointed out. Alfred had yelled some in Russian, and that was because he doubted that English always got through to the Northern nation. His Russian, thank you very much, was nearly flawless. Alfred glared at him and ignored the comment.

"And fourth, why would _I_ know why they were staring?"

"Oh, that could be one of many things..." Ivan interrupted. Alfred looked at him expectantly. How he was in this situation, he wasn't quite sure - the morning, he had walked out of Ivan's hotel room. Around lunchtime, he had walked straight into the taller nation, and had started spouting some pretty creative insults (if he did say so himself). He had spent the rest of the afternoon having different fights with Ivan. And somehow at some point he had ended up in his own room with Ivan, and right before Arthur had barged in Ivan had just decided to stop Alfred's bitching. In his own, not very creative way. "Well?" Alfred asked.

"Well, everyone knows." As Alfred was about to ask or protest something, Ivan decided to point out. "Or maybe it is because of those obvious marks on your neck, that are very much on display because my shirt is way too big on you. I must admit, Alfred, it looks ridiculous on you." Alfred wasn't paying attention to him anymore, he had dashed into the bathroom to check the mirror. "The floor does wear that shirt better than you do," Ivan called to the American, who huffed.

"You're not getting _anything_ from me!" He yelled, obviously distraught by how everyone had seen that Ivan had basically _claimed_ Alfred. He groaned. He didn't have turtlenecks with him, and his whole neck was covered with lovebites. Not _love_ bites, but -

"Of course, Alfred, it is you who gets it from me," Ivan shot back at the American. It was just so much fun annoying the younger nation. The bathroom door was only half-open, but Alfred seemed to want to unhinge it as he crashed into the room, banging the door loudly against the wall as he was about to shout at Ivan when he heard a loud knock.

" _Alfred, I am serious, move your useless arse before I do!"_ Arthur yelled from the other side. There was a laugh from the other side, one that wasn't Arthur's, and Alfred swore he had heard the words "I don't think Ivan would agree with the useless part," spoken in a very distinctly French accent. Ivan had apparently heard it too, as he burst out laughing. Alfred went off on search for his shirt, and when he found it, he discarded Ivan's (by throwing into the Russian's face) and put his own on. He glared at Ivan once more before walking out the door. Five seconds later, Matthew had caught up to his brother, and was grinning like mad. Alfred looked at him suspiciously. His brother was usually not so openly smug about anything. Because smug was what he looked like. He didn't need to ask, because Matthew laughed and answered him.

"Thanks, bro, I owe you one." That actually was not any sort of answer.

"Uh, yeah, you all do, but what've I done this time?" Alfred asked, confusion adding an edge to his question.

"Well, let's just say that because of you, though I'm not any richer, we'll all have a good laugh tomorrow at the meeting." Matthew strolled beside him as Alfred stopped people to notify them of what Arthur had told him - though many people did answer with "I know already". If Arthur was going to do it himself, then why did he ask Alfred to? And as he realised that Matthew had still not given him any explanation, he motioned for him to continue.

"Matt, you're not making any freakin' sense!"

"Okay, fine, I'll tell you everything. Remember the Cold War?"

"'Course I do, but that was ages ago," Alfred muttered.

"Yeah, well, back then, when you and the Russki there kept yelling at each other - which you do still - but you looked like you had something going on between you and Kiku, well, me and Francis made a bet." Arthur walked past them, muttering "Francis and I, you uneducated, illiterate American", having probably not realised it was Matthew and not Alfred. Matthew ignored it, his violet eyes almost glinting. "I thought - knew - that you and Ivan would basically end up doing something. Back then, though now he has changed opinions, Francis thought that you would never go for Ivan but for Kiku. And now he's realised it, but only too late. And well, the bet was that if I lose, I have to basically show up to a meeting as Uncle Sam or something. If he lost, Francis would wear Crocs for one meeting." At that point, he burst out laughing. "G-Guess who - who won!" He was nearly doubled over from laughter, while Alfred was torn between laughing or being annoyed at his brother, who had bet on his relationships! With Ivan, out of all people! He instead settled for silence, waiting for Matthew to continue. "Okay," he stated, "I'm calmer now," he finished laughing. "No, I'm serious, though, do you have any idea how hilarious that will be? It'll be -"

" _GILBERT!_ "

Matthew and Alfred both ducked as a reflex, covering their ears from the booming voice. After realising that it was not a threat, but Ludwig yelling at his brother (though that could be considered a threat, yes), they stood back straight up and looked around for where the voice had come from.

" _Was? Ich habe nichts gemacht! Dein Zimmer ist normal, deiner-"_ Giblert strode into view, Ludwig glaring at him from one of the rooms with his arms crossed. The whole hallway had stopped.

_"Gilbert, das ist nicht was ich will sagen. Warum gab es Geld-"_

_"_ Oh. That..." Gilbert looked at Alfred and snickered. He made sure the blond heard every word he said. "There was money in that safe because _I_ won a bet. Alfred helped me win it." At that, Alfred visibly shrank. Yes, he had beaten the German twice before, but he really did not want to get involved in this, especially when Ludwig was looking at him like _that_ , and when it was clear that half the world - literally - had bet on him and Ivan, or whatever.

Ludwig glared some more, before Feliciano's voice could be heard from the room, "Ludwig, it's nothing, Alfred just slept with Ivan and I also won money, because Lovino lost!" The door shut, and Gilbert laughed out loud. He strode towards Alfred and Matthew, where the Canadian was holding in a laughter and the American had gone completely pale. He felt like he was in a dream - the one where he felt like he was standing, bare, in the middle of high school, or something. Gilbert patted Alfred's shoulder.

"Heh, you're going to be hearing about this for a long, long, _long_ while, Alfred." He spotted Matthew, and shifted towards him. Alfred didn't hear their exchange as Gilbert whispered something to Matthew, and his brother just turned his head away slightly. However, he did see the wink that Gilbert sent Matthew while strolling casually away. Alfred was dumbstruck.

"What the hell was that about?!" He spluttered. Matthew looked at him, and simply shrugged with a smirk playing on his lips. His brother mumbled something about getting dinner and going to the lobby, and left Alfred to stand alone. The American groaned, and as he was done telling nations anything today anymore, he saw nothing else to do except go back to his room and dig into the minibar. Hey, the trip was all expenses paid, so why not take advantage? The only detail he had forgotten was who exactly was still in his room, and who exactly was watching TV in his room only in his jeans.

"What the - Ivan, get the fuck out of my room! You've got your own!"

Only then did Ivan seem to notice Alfred, and smiled slightly. "But Alfred, your room is so much better than mine," he stated simply. At Alfred's look of confusion, he continued. "You're here," he kept on smiling, and Alfred began to find it unnerving.

"Braginsky, I swear to God -"

"It's Ivan, you didn't have any problems calling me that last night," Ivan smirked, but Alfred took in a breath and ignored him.

"I swear if you don't get out of my room-"

"What?" Ivan asked, amused.

"I'll - I'll - stop smiling, you idiot, or I'll wipe it off your face with friggin' cyanide, and you won't smile ever again!" Alfred said, pointing his finger at Ivan's face. Ivan who simply sat there and laughed.

"You know you don't want to do that," he said, but stood from the bed. "But fine, I will leave you. You know where I sleep." Ivan said, taking his shirt and leaving the room (fully clothed, of course). Alfred had not noticed that the pipe had been in his room, but he was glad he hadn't. He had gotten himself into one mess, and he didn't like it one bit. Well, technically, the mess started centuries ago.

Basically, it had started when he was on the field where he had come to. Alfred sighed. It would be one hell of a day, tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sais diaw - English devil
> 
> si vis pacem, para bellum - If you want peace, prepare for war (yeah, it was translated right below, but just because it still is a translation)
> 
> Inglaterra, ¿qué pasa? - England, what happened?
> 
> was? Ich habe nichts gemacht! Dein Zimmer ist normal, deiner- - What? I haven't done anything! Your room's normal, your-
> 
> das ist nicht was ich will sagen. Warum gab es Geld- - that's not what I want to say. Why was there money-


	4. You're Crashing, But You're No Wave

_"I imagined death so much, it feels more like a memory. When's it gonna get me? In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me?"_

_\- Alexander Hamilton, an American Musical._

The meeting was calmer than usual, a sense of tension weighing the air down. Some nations were bickering, yes, but even they seemed to try to keep their voices down. It seemed that Arthur had made enough of a deal about this meeting and the fact they all had to leave that they all felt a little nervous or impatient to hear what exactly was going on. The voices that could be heard just seemed to drift about aimlessly, not meaning anything, just filling up the silence - the silence that otherwise would have been present and pressed on their minds.

Alfred looked confused, as he hadn't noticed anything strange about the nations yesterday, nor had he really taken Arthur's words that seriously. He could only assume that Arthur had scared them all enough to have a nice and quite meeting that day so that he could get whatever he had to say, said. Speaking of whom, the island was nowhere to be seen. He saw that other British guy - what was his name? Dylan, right - but not Arthur. As Alfred was about to look for someone to talk to, as he was getting bored and just a slight bit nervous - just a bit, he was a hero after all - out of the corner of his eye he saw the door open and Arthur entering with Ludwig walking behind him. The German man glared at Gilbert, who snickered lightly on the side of the room, and then he went to sit into one of the chairs around the table.

Arthur glanced around the room at the other nations. Maybe he should have sounded less tense when he decided to tell them to pack their things and leave as soon as possible, but it was better this way. If the nations were stressed, they would be more prone to listening to what he would say, and more readied for action. He stood on the podium.

"I told you all that you should find a way to get back to your governments as soon as it is humanely possible for you, yes? I have had a few events occur, that need to be taken care of immediately, and though I am not sure of anything yet, I believe you should leave - I cannot host a meeting at the moment. Allistair, or Scotland, as some of you know him better as, has gone missing, and this is something that needs my immediate attention. I will give you more information as soon as I have any," he stated, though he knew he would keep this only on a need-to-know-basis. "But please, those who haven't found a way home, please do so." No movement. " _Now_ would be a great time."

_Seriously, that was all?_ Alfred thought. The Briton had seemed so stressed yesterday and then it was about his _brother_ , whom Alfred knew went missing about five times a year.

Some nations took out their phones, some left the room, some protested, but Arthur walked out of the conference room to call his boss. He stepped out of the room, still hearing a number of nations inside trying to get him to answer some of their questions, but none followed him outside. He took out his phone and speed-dialled his boss, hearing the ringing tone. After three, there was an answer.

" _Ah, Arthur! Any news from your brother yet?"_

Arthur stared at the wall for a second. "Erm... I think that there is a very important reason for you to return to London immediately, sir."

_"Arthur, is everything alright there?"_ There was an undertone of concern in his Prime Minister's voice.

"Mostly, yes. But there have been a few developments in the last few hours, and though I cannot explain them to you at the moment, I strongly advise for you to return as soon as it is possible for you. Earliest plane, train, anything."

_"I suppose I will have to then, as nothing has happened here, but I expect a complete explanation from you upon my return."_

Arthur sighed. "Of course, sir." _Of course not._ Arthur had no intention to worry his boss with a situation he could not possibly understand or begin to process. After the usual parting note, Arthur hung up. He leant against the wall, closing his eyes for a minute, trying to think of what he could do. He couldn't order a search party, because he had no idea where to even begin to look. For all Arthur knew, Oliver might be in another country by now. He couldn't tell Parliament, just attempt to keep it together for as long as possible and strengthen the shambled government that he had. This was just about the worst moment for the Second Players to show up, when everyone was having political problems - though Arthur supposed that for them it was an advantage. He had to get the other nations out of his country as fast as possible so that he could shut down airports and ports and all that - that way he could prevent the 2Ps from getting too far out of reach. However, there was always the underlying risk that in fact the Second Players had already gone and were currently sitting on a plane under fake names and fake identities on their way to fuck up governments and nations. Which Arthur feared a lot.

"What are you going to do? How will you find Allistair?" Francis appeared next to him, he, too, leaning against the wall. Arthur sighed and shook his head.

"I can honestly say that I don't know yet. I haven't gotten so far as to plan what I'll have for dinner, so I do not think that I can really plan anything else. I'll just start by taking care of one thing at a time."

"As long as you don't cook, you will be fine," Francis smirked, and Arthur huffed indignantly. Francis had an idea. "Oh, if you want, I can cook for you. I mean, you could use that time in thinking."

Arthur stared long at the Frenchman. "When did you become sensible and start making reasonable comments?"

Francis let out a laugh. "The day that I started to try to get into your house, get you drunk and-"

"Of course, why did I not see this coming?" Arthur rolled his eyes and snorted but smiled. No, wait, he didn't smile, definitely not at something the _frog_ had said. What a ridiculous thought.

"Fine, I promise that I won't try anything. Unless you suggest it, of course."

Arthur glared at him, though it actually was more at himself for his previous reaction. "Francis, you can turn anything suggestive, even an old, sweaty boot."

Francis didn't think twice. "Well, I know something _old_ that I can get just as sweaty as that boot you're talking about."

"You don't even have to try," Arthur mumbled. _You can turn anything dirty, and you don't even try._ Country of love, sure, but there was love and there was love, there was a difference and Arthur was sure that Francis knew it and exploited it very deeply.

That wasn't what Francis caught. "Oh? So you're saying that I could easily do that? Why, Arthur, I didn't know you-"

Arthur smacked the Frenchman on his head, glaring at the French idiot. "Shut it, that is most certainly not what I meant." Arthur began to stroll towards the elevators, but stopped. "And for the record, I am _not_ old. If anything, there is someone I know, whom I am looking at right now, who in fact, if he has happened to have forgotten, I should remind, is older than I." _There._ Francis laughed heartily.

"Oh, Arthur. You may be younger by a few hundred years, but believe me, I am much younger in appearance and in health than you - after all, I do not eat that nuclear waste abomination you call food," Francis countered smugly, lifting himself off the wall and taking a few steps towards Arthur.

"Because eating slimy snails and frogs makes you healthy? And if you haven't realised, garlic makes your breath smell." Arthur scrunched up his nose in distaste to emphasise his point.

"Oh, but you love it," Francis purred, grabbing the Englishman's hips. Immediately, hands shot out to his wrists, and tried to pull away.

"Francis, let go, or I swear I will curse your dearest possessions -"

"Uh, dudes, get a room, we're in an English hotel, there won't be shortage."

Arthur and Francis both looked to Alfred who was looking at the floor. Both European nations looked confusedly at each other: they weren't doing anything! However, Francis did release Arthur, who tapped Alfred on the shoulder.

"Might I remind you it was _I_ who found _you_ pinned under _Ivan_ yesterday, half-naked, because you hadn't closed the door?" Alfred flushed a deep red.

" _Why_ didn't you tell me?" Francis interjected, but Arthur ignored him.

"Was there something you wanted, Alfred?"

"Nah, not really, just air. I'll go back into the room, I need to book a ticket."

"Alfred!" Arthur scolded exasperatedly. "I told you yesterday-!"

"I know, I know, but I forgot. If you tell me to do something, why would you expect me to remember it?"

Francis laughed. "That's true, he can't even remember what he himself says."

"Well, I don't think you can either, can you, Francis?" A foreign voice asked from behind them. Francis turned slightly paler once he recognised the voice, and turned slowly around to face the speaker.

"Matthew, _mon fils_ , how are you? I haven't seen you since yesterday-"

"Francis, cut the crap." Matthew had an almost dangerous gleam to his violet eyes. "I believe we had an agreement, a _bet,_ " he reported with no emotion in his voice. "Which you lost," the Canadian clarified, a self-satisfied look on his young face. Arthur looked confused, but Alfred was about to implode from laughter. "Which you also didn't stick to, I see." He glared pointedly at Francis' black, Italian shoes.

" _Matthieu, j'ai oublié, d'accord? Je te promets-"_ Francis was gesticulating violently with his hands, and even though both anglophile nations standing to the side understood the language (yes, Alfred too, his country was a _melting pot_ , out of the nearly 7,000 languages in the world, he spoke more than he could count), they both would have had no difficulty understanding the happenings from the hand movements.

_"N'importe quoi, t'as pas oublié,"_ Matthew said, and Francis had to concentrate very hard on what his former care was saying - he had never understood _how_ the language spoken in Québec was deemed to have any relation to the language of love. _"Mais,"_ a grin made its way on Matthew's face. "You're lucky I brought everything with me. And because you didn't honour our deal, I'm going to have to change the rules, also. And those rules are..." Matthew swung a bag he had thrown over his shoulder to his front, digging for what he was looking for. "You're going to have to wear these for... let's see... the meeting technically lasted only less than an hour, though it should have, normally, lasted at least four, but I'm not going to be that _harsh_..." He pulled out bright, cerulean blue Crocs, and Alfred and Arthur burst out laughing while Francis hissed in horror. "Two days. Whenever you wear shoes for the next 48 hours, it will be these."

To Francis' humiliation, Jett (Australia) walked past and overheard the conversation. He immediately swung his arm over Francis' shoulder, and spoke in the dialect that had Arthur rolling his eyes every time. "Oh, Fran, I thought it was you who screamed 'abomination' when I once wore these. Oh wait, it _was_ you! Heh, I guess payback's a bastard," the country laughed and walked off.

Alfred couldn't resist calling out, "It's 'bitch'! Payback's a bitch!"

As Australia turned back, he shot Alfred with, "Well if you don't shut your loud mouth, I'll show you who's a bitch!"

Alfred strode up to the Australian, and they began shooting insults at each other.

"You always stick your nose everywhere!"

"Well, at least I'm not living on basically another planet! Even England's exasperated with you!"

"Says you!"

"Yeah, says me, wanna freaking go?"

"Ha! If I went you'd scamper off with your tail between your legs, you American oaf!"

"Yeah, right, I'll show you who'll scamper off!"

Arthur debated whether he should interfere or just let his two former colonies tear their eyes off and give him some peace. Though he suspected that that would just achieve him a couple months of nursing until the two _immortal_ idiots recovered their eyesight. As long as the two weren't at war, they couldn't cause permanent damage, but he still didn't want to watch and hear them recover. That would be a hell of a thing to explain to their bosses. And Alfred had already gotten into one fight (wherever that had led him with Ivan) and he did not want any more blood on his hands. For now.

He'd go by alphabetical order.

"ALFRED FITZGERALD JONES!" Arthur went off after them.

"Ha, he's annoyed at you."

"JARRETT KIRKLAND!"

"Dad, don't call me Jarrett!"

"Sure, he's annoyed. Dad just likes _me_ more 'cause he called _me_ first."

"I thought I had raised _both_ of you better than this! I am absolutely..." his voice trailed off. Francis used this as a distraction and exploited it to change the subject.

"Oh, do you hear him? He sounds like a mother hen, teaching her - uh, his - two children to behave," Francis smiled and began to walk off.

Matthew caught a hold of his arm. "Don't change the subject. Sometimes you really are as slippery as a frog."

Francis would have to give Arthur a piece of his mind about nicknames, or maybe come up with something of his own. "I'm not!"

"Then put these on," Matthew said as he shoved the _atrocities_ into the Frenchman's arms. Francis debated for a minute what he should do.

"Fine." _I can always stay the rest of the evening in my room._ He took off his shoes and regretfully, placed the plastic things at his feet. "Happy?" he growled, making a beeline for the elevators immediately afterwards. He passed the three arguing nations (or rather two rather sheepish nations and one shouting one), who burst out laughing straight after seeing the shoes. He didn't notice Arthur detach himself of the two younger nations - however, not before uttering a threat of what would happen should they not behave - nor did he notice the Spaniard nor the Prussian who quickly dashed into the same elevator as him. As he entered the lift, the three other nations did, pressing the doors closed and tapping on their floor number. Which all were the same one.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Francis asked the three others, still bitter about losing a bet about _l'amour,_ and even more about giving in.

"Yeah, what _are_ you doing here?" Gilbert asked the Brit. It was no secret to anyone that their enmity had never - and probably never would - vanish. Arthur suddenly felt like he was stuck in a claustrophobic, small, war on two or even three fronts.

"Same could be asked about you two," he retaliated in a heartbeat.

" _We_ happen to be the friends who have stuck by him for centuries, through all the humiliations he's ever gone through," Antonio bit back.

"Well, I happen to be his greatest enemy, and who has been that for almost a millennium, and who has caused most of those, humiliations," Arthur said, though that did not really give him an excuse. "I always make fun of him."

Francis took the opportunity to lift his mood and make the Englishman squirm. He handed his shoes to Gilbert. "Ah, but Arthur, that is not _true_! It is love that has driven you here," he grinned. "You see," he spoke to the other two nations who were about to laugh their heads off, as he swung an arm around Arthur's shoulders and the Briton's cheeks lit up slightly (anger or embarrassment, he didn't nor did he want to know), "Arthur and I are toget-"

"We most _certainly_ are not!" Arthur was by now struggling to keep his cool, his calm, while at the same time trying to get out of the Frenchman's death grip on his shoulders.

"Don't listen to him," Francis dismissed the Briton. "He just doesn't know it yet."

"I _do_ know that this has nothing to do with anyone's feeli-"

"Oh, but everything has to do with feelings," Francis smiled sweetly, stroking Arthur's arms, who was now physically squirming. Twice, in one day, he was stuck in Francis' hold. It said something about what he had to change in his way of life.

" _Also, das erklärt alles,"_ Gilbert grinned. Antonio just watched. Arthur looked at them slightly pleadingly. How many enemies had he actually managed to acquire? One day he should make a list, just to know. These two would be at the top of the list, along with his own brothers and sisters.

"It doesn't - clarify - anything - Franics, lay off!" Arthur was now pinned against the wall and Francis, who looked at him with those sky-blue eyes.

"Oh, but my dear, I would so prefer to lay _on_ you," Francis purred into Arthur's ear, his hands at Arthur's hips moving higher. Arthur shivered slightly, so that only he noticed - and Francis. _Fuck._ Francis' lips brushed against the corner of Arthur's mouth, teasing but not really touching.

Suddenly, the lift came to halt, and with a _ding_ , the metallic doors opened. Gilbert and Antonio exited first, laughing continuously. Francis simply winked at Arthur, walked out, and blew him a kiss with two fingers.

"Remember, tonight, I cook," Francis reminded him, and as he left, Arthur didn't even look at the horrid shoes.

Arthur quickly gained back his composure and punched in the floor where the meeting had been. He had his coat and laptop still there, he would fetch them and go home. And lock his door, thrice. He had been the bloody British Empire! He had ruled the world, and he had been perfectly able to hold his composure through centuries of meetings, ceremony after another, coronations, war, death, colonisation, independence, and without blinking an eye (except when Alfred left him, as that had been the real beginning of his downfall - the rest had gone smoother. As the elevator doors opened, he dashed out and brushed past the nations outside, and Alfred and Matthew both spotted the still flustered Brit.

"Arthur, what's up, did you get a good laugh?" Matthew bounced next to him. Sometimes Arthur had to wonder if France had raised a bit of a sadist. The boy was jumping with glee at the concept of making fun of the man.

"Bloody brilliant, a jolly good laugh that was," he muttered exaggeratedly.

"What the heck happened in there?" Alfred asked, a mixture of laughter and concern edged on his confused face.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing, everything was just as it has always been." He grabbed the coat that had somehow migrated half a table, and disconnected the laptop whose battery had run out. He placed it under his arm, before putting on his trench-coat while careful not to drop the contraption. He straightened his suit and tie, and ignored the rest of the North American brothers' queries. Instead, he turned to the two brothers, an utterly calm look on his face.

"Does either of you have, or know someone who has, currently, on them, a pack of cigarettes?" He asked calmly.

Both looked momentarily confused. "I thought you quit," Alfred said, not a question but a fact.

Arthur stared him in the eye, his calm look about to slowly dissolve into pure exasperation. "I did not ask you to think, I asked for cigarettes."

"Oh, um, I don't, Matthew?" The Canadian looked unsure, but nodded and fished into the bag he still had over his shoulder.

"I don't really know how old these are, but it's unopened." Arthur took the pack handed to him, and strode off with a muttered "thank you". Alfred looked at his brother.

"I thought he quit?" Now he asked it as a question. Arthur had stopped smoking after WWII, and as far as the two blonds knew, he hadn't taken it up again. Matthew shrugged, and they chatted for a while longer before suddenly Alfred went just about rigid. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up, and as he whipped around, his arm drawn back to punch whomever it was that was about to attack him, he was halted when that same arm was halted. By a great, tall, looming Russian.

"Why would you try to creep up on me?" Alfred jerked his hand back.

"I was not trying to creep up on you, I just wanted to ask you about what was going on. There were some loud noises, and I had nothing to do."

Alfred glared at Matthew as if daring him to say anything, who in turn lifted his arms in a defensive way and walked off.

"Don't try that ever again! That'll just end in you having a broken nose," Alfred huffed.

"Oh, because you were so successful in punching me, yes?"

Alfred opened his mouth in protest, but he had nothing better than "your mom" in mind. The people in his country could be very creative with insults sometimes, but on other times, it was worse than an old, dead, cow's. Which reminded him, he was really hungry. He walked towards the lifts, Ivan in tow (who knew why) and Matthew - who wasn't there? Alfred looked around himself but could not find his brother, who had just been standing next to him, anywhere. Sometimes the Canadian was easy to forget, but sometimes, Alfred could swear he had the ability to just vanish into thin air. Maybe that was some sort of Candian super-secret power of invisibility, in which case Alfred was disappointed in his brother for not telling him about such superpowers.

* * *

_Allen and Matthieu, both up in the sky. Dmitri, flying. Francois, Lutz, Xiao, all on their way. They're all moving._

_Except Luciano and Flavio are still here. This ought to be fun._

Oliver kept looking at the "Arrivals and Departures" screen, from where he knew when another of the counterparts would leave on their trip to conquer the land they had been given. Luciano, beside him, mumbled something into his coffee. They had managed to storm a shop in a shadier part of the city and gotten some more... normal clothes, as theirs would stand out too easily. Flavio was going on about some of this world's designers, and about how excited he would be when he had access to some of the universe's best models and designs. Luciano, though, looked just about to stab him, and Oliver tapped his fingers impatiently. They had to move fast, and he still wanted to plan what exactly to do himself. Maybe he could get a hotel room, or just break in a warehouse or something. It wouldn't take long for him to arrange everything, something to go for a fake I.D. and arrange some money from somewhere. Back in the other universe, they had made themselves passports and all that, but his did still say "Oliver Kirkland" on the first page. And he was fairly certain that Arthur would by now have connected the dots and try to look for him by any means possible. The other countries, he wasn't so worried: he knew the nations were in a meeting (he had spent a lot of time listening from that mirror, for years - maybe decades, even, as it was more complicated to find out anything when the glass was untouched and whole), and so all of them had a head start. Once they arrived, they would deal with their affairs on their own, and progress as fast as possible.

"Oliver." Luciano was looking at him with his red eyes. "When is the plane boarding?" He took another sip of the coffee, before placing it a bit too violently back on the table and spilling some of it. "I'm not having any more of this stale, tasteless, weak, pathetic, British excuse for coffee, I want to get the hell to Italy right now and let the fucking fun begin!" Oliver stared at him, refusing to say anything. "Fine, could you _please_ tell me _when_ my plane is leaving?"

"Of course I can. It says that it'll announce the gate in five minutes and then time of departure is -"

"I know, I know, just shut up. You too," he snapped at the other Italian, who scoffed but did as he was told. He leant back in his chair, crossing his arms and glaring at his surroundings. "What's your plan?" He looked at Oliver, who was currently swirling his tea around his cup with a spoon.

"Well, I am planning at the moment." He gave a slight pause. "I might make contact with a few groups that could be interested - something like anarchists, or trade unions, you know? Or I might just walk into Parliament and just sort of scare them all into following my lead. Or I could capture Arthur, and then walk into Parliament. Or hold the Royal Family hostage. Hey, that could work." Oliver looked pensive. "Actually, I probably would prefer the idea of stirring up some minor trouble first, and let that escalate on its own." He looked at the Italians. "However, what I do know is that my mess-up gave me an advantage."

Both Italians lifted their eyebrows at the same moment. Right, they didn't know about the mess-up.

"Alright, so the first time I attempted to form a portal between the two worlds with whatever little magic I could gather up, I used a pentacle and all that. I'm not too good at those, but I did manage to open up the portal. It held for about five minutes, time enough for Scott, Scotland, and me to go through. As we were coming back, however, only I managed to do so, before the portal closed. Scott remained on the other side. After that, I managed to keep in contact with him but not open another portal to return him. What he told me, however, was more useful than he would have been on the other side. Allistair soon saw him, and then he sprinted. Don't know where, but Scott couldn't leave the house because of magic or something. After a while, Allistair came back, and tried to deal with Scott, but from what I gathered, they're still duelling in the house. How, I don't know, but Scott told me yesterday that he had finally dealt with the situation there. Which means that if he has control of Scotland, that gives me a major advantage; I'm right in my dear old brother's backyard, and I also have a nice hideout, and I also have some great support there. Scots are really easy to stir up against the English." Oliver cleared his throat. "How about you? Do you have any ideas?"

Luciano snorted. "Don't need a plan. _Supermodel_ here had a genius idea, for once." He jerked his head towards his brother.

Flavio took off his sunglasses, placing them carefully on the table. "Do you know what Italy is mainly known about?"

Oliver smirked. "What, running away? Or wait, shoes? Pizza? Food in general?"

" _Sta 'zitto, bastardo,"_ Luciano snapped viciously.

"Luce, calm down. You're so easy to rile up." Flavio huffed and continued. "Yes, Italians are famous for those, but that's not what I meant." He leaned in closer to Oliver and his brother, so that no outsider could eavesdrop on their conversation. "The Mafia, of course."

Oliver thought for a minute. He nodded slowly. A grin spread on his freckled face. "That is, actually and in fact, a rather brilliant idea."

"I know, for a minute I had to wonder if that was an impostor," Luciano interjected. "Though then he started wittering about the mafia's style of clothing, and I didn't have to anymore."

"Luciano, let me explain the rest to him." Flavio turned back to Oliver. "Once I've established contact and control of the Italian mafias - mainly Cosa Nostra, 'Ndragheta and Camorra (1), then the fun starts. It won't take long for the two of us to get to that point. We can just dispose of anyone we don't like, because that's how it goes. Their widespread arms dealing will be of much use in our situation. And after using that to finish off Italy, or you know at the same time, we can make contact, with, cooperate and coordinate things operations with, for example, the Russians. Dmitri already said that he would do the same as us, and once we've got our things together, then us and Dmitri can operate worldwide. He knows that they have as allies Americans, multiple Eastern European people and there's a few more I can't remember. That should help you guys. We know that they're only interested in causing trouble, and not in taking over a government. But, it should be pretty useful."

"That..." Oliver thought for another minute, trying to find a flaw - other than the obvious ones, but every plan had those. He couldn't find anything major that would point towards an idiotic and bound-to-fail plan. "That is actually eater brilliant, Flavio, I must admit. It is useful, mostly simple if you have the correct connections, and it would help many a Second Player."

Luciano leant back in his chair, a smug and victorious grin spreading across his face. "Isn't this all just too easy and simple? I think it is, but I won't complain. As long as that airhead is mine and I get to run him to the ground..." He sighed wistfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> j'ai oublié, d'accord? Je te promets- - I forgot, alright? I promise -
> 
> n'importe quoi, t'as pas oublié - like hell you forgot
> 
> mais - but
> 
> also, das erklärt alles - well, that clarifies everything
> 
> sta 'zitto, bastardo - shut the fuck up, bastard


	5. Until It's Gone

_"I wanna break every clock, the hands of time could never move again,  
_ _we could stay in this moment for the rest of our lives."_

_-Inevitable, Anberlin._

The scent of tea wafted through the house, mixing with the horrid stench coming from the attic. Dylan tried to ignore the terrible smell that was the result, and every window was open and air conditioning was fully on, blasting air to get it moving out of the house. Arthur was walking around with a cloth covering his nose and mouth, rushing about in a manner very uncharacteristic to him. Francis was sitting across from Dylan, also scrunching up his nose and covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief he had found somewhere. He had been at Arthur's for the night, the Briton reluctantly agreeing for the Frenchman to crash on the couch. In the evening, the smell had definitely not been that bad, and it was barely noticeable. Francis had cooked, just as he had promised, and Dylan had showed up to bug his brother. After a few bottles of wine they had decided to call it a day, and Francis, too tired to call a taxi and Arthur refusing to drive him anywhere, was allocated to the couch while Dylan took the guest room. What Francis found strange was that Arthur had such a big house and had only one bedroom and one guestroom, no other rooms with any sort of bed. Though he had used every other room as either a library, a study, some sort of storage room, another library, a whole room for a piano... Not that Francis had heard Arthur play it for a very long time.

"Arthur, do you mind telling me why it smells like a cemetery moved into your house overnight?" Francis asked.

"When're you going to do something about it?" Dylan questioned. Arthur was currently shifting about the kitchen, digging into a cabinet.

"No, I won't tell you, because I don't exactly know, and I currently _am_ doing something about it. I forgot to lock the attic door and now it's everywhere. I'm trying my best here."

"You don't suppose you can use your magic to clean up?" Dylan taunted, what with him being rather skeptical of magical things.

"No, doesn't work like that. I would have to cleanse the entire house, and I don't even know what might come up. I won't risk that." Arthur suddenly disappeared from the room again, and was heard going up the stairs.

Francis looked to the Welshman. "You don't suppose he has some sort of room up there he brings people in to kill them?" Francis asked worriedly.

Dylan chuckled. "Nah, he wouldn't use an attic - too obvious." They laughed. "But when he found out about Allistair's basement, that was basically the first question Arthur asked him. Though I suppose that their attics and basements are for one use only - magical storage of things. I think there's only a handful of people those two have ever let know about their 'secret havens for magic' or something. Consider yourself luck-"

"What did you say?" Arthur had reappeared. He had a look of worry, realisation, shock and remembrance on his face. Before Dylan could answer, Arthur continued. "Who - do you have any idea who or how many people know about Allistair's basement?"

Dylan frowned in thought. "Uh... There's you, me, him, Erin and Connor and now Francey-pants here," he said as Francis scoffed at the ridiculous nickname. "I don't know, maybe some others, but not as far as I know. Maybe Alfred or Matthew, possibly." He shrugged.

"Does either of our ministers know?" Arthur asked.

"How the hell do you think that'd go down? 'Hey, Boss, I practice magic in my basement in addition to being immortal, believe me, though some of my family thinks I'm crazy except my lil' brother'?" Dylan exaggerated. "Really, Art, have you told your boss about your attic? Hm?" Arthur passed a hand over his face as something dawned on him.

"I can't _believe_ I've been so stupid as to forget that, how did I not see this - it all explains it, for fuck's sake!" And he was back out of the room. The other two nations waited for ten minutes as Arthur rummaged around upstairs. When he came back, he looked at the two with an expecting face. "Well?" Neither reacted, because they weren't sure how to. "Get out! I need to go, and you sure as hell are not staying here while I'm out!" He ushered them to gather their things and out the door. "Get a taxi, bus, whatever, I do not care," he stated as he quickly went to his car, his green eyes flickering about. "Oh," he turned back towards Dylan. "If my boss asks, I've gone to Scotland and hopefully be back in the evening, possibly tomorrow. Good-bye," he finished as he shut the door and drove away.

Francis and Dylan looked a bit struck as they were left standing. "Well," Francis started. "Do you want to split a cab to the hotel? I need to pack, anyway." Dylan shrugged. He would also be leaving in the afternoon.

* * *

The plane was stuffy, and it was boring, and there was nothing to do. There was no film running, only the flight information showing on the screen, and he would definitely not stare at that for the next hour or so they had left of their flight. His phone had ran out of battery, as had his laptop (last time he would forget to charge it before a flight, however short it may be. He hadn't brought a book with, of course not, and therefore, there was nothing to do. Except one thing, which of course, was to annoy his brother who was sitting next to him.

"Hey Ludwig?"

The German man lifted his eyes from his book and lifted his eyebrows. He thought that by now his brother would be either asleep or deep in some game of his. They had been on the flight for a while already. He glanced quickly at the screen that was showing flight information - they still had an hour left. If Gilbert planned on being like this the entire time, it would feel like it would be a four hour flight. Which he most definitely didn't want to feel like.

"D'you wanna go get wasted tonight? I mean I heard they opened this new place down in Danziger Strasse, where Monterey Bar used to be. Karl said it's really cool and they have great music and -"

Ludwig sighed. "Really, Gilbert? We haven't even landed, and you're already thinking of places to go get drunk? And no, I do not want to join if you decide to go. Two days ago was enough of a bad idea to last me for a lifetime." He returned to his book, trying to find the sentence he was reading before he was interrupted.

"Come on, you know that's not true, you're probably going to give up in a week. Oh, hey, it's Oktoberfest soon!" Ludwig flinched as some of the other travellers on the plane turned to glare at the loud-mouthed idiot of a brother he had. The Prussian simply snickered at the obvious discomfort he had caused in his brother. He nudged him. "I know you can't refuse that, it's a tradition I made."

Ludwig glared at Gilbert over his glasses. "For the five hundredth time, you didn't make the tradition."

"I invented getting drunk before it was cool."

The other sighed. "It's not about getting drunk, it's - look, I don't wish to get drunk, thank you very-" He stopped, a shiver running through him. It felt as if _someone_ had entered his country, but he didn't know who. It wasn't a regular mortal, he couldn't feel those. Important politicians and such, he would be able to feel those, but no - the feeling was too strong for it to be any type of citizen of this planet. As far as he knew, no nation had plans to visit him any time soon. And they were all going back home to their own place, not his. Maybe it could be someone, a Nordic, perhaps, taking a connecting flight, or something. He looked up at his brother. There was an odd look in his eyes that told Ludwig that Gilbert had felt it too.

"Did you-?" Gilbert started, but Ludwig nodded.

"Yeah, I did, what was it?" He asked, and his brother shrugged. For once in his lifetime, the Prussian looked serious and was thinking about something. It was strange, and to Ludwig, it was unnerving. He'd very rarely seen his brother actually worried or serious, and so seeing him like that was a bit worrying.

"You know, let's just leave it," Gilbert said nonchalantly. "For now. We can worry and see for ourselves once we get back to Berlin."

* * *

The airport was filled with people, everyone coming or going, voices mingling together in a loud harmony of languages and tones. Voice-overs called out names and numbers and times, always preceded by the soft bells indicating a new message. Planes came and went, landing and taking off outside the great bay windows that gave onto the landing strip. The loud noises they made as their engines ran were not heard too much inside the airport, but if one listened carefully, sometimes an airplane could be heard landing over the cries of babies whose ears hurt from being in an airplane, the sounds of laughter from groups of businessmen who were waiting for their flight, and the voices of family 'hello's and 'good-bye's as a plane would soon take off to take them to a new place. Different smells wafted through the air, the bitter smell of coffee entwining in the air with that of pastries, and the ever-present smell of travelling was floating everywhere. It attached itself to people, their belongings and their clothes, and the scent of airplanes and voyage clung to them like an exotic perfume.

Lovino had booked the first plane out of London, more than happy to leave the sunless, boring, dull English city. He didn't even pretend to care about what the reason behind Arthur's request for an early departure, because he really, actually did not care. The other idiot was bouncing around next to him as they walked through the airport, babbling on and on about something that Lovino didn't care about either. He found himself not caring about much, really. He glared at passer-bys who threw his brother slightly surprised looks, and they quickly looked away. He glared at basically everyone.

"Lovi! Feli!" A voice called them, and Lovino immediately knew who that voice belonged to. He turned around, only to glare at yet another two people. sure enough, Francis and Antonio were strolling around the airport, looking for a flight.

"What do you want, bastard?" Lovino shot at the three, mainly at the Spanish man who had called for him.

"Oh, nothing, Lovi!" Antonio beamed. "My flight leaves in about an hour, so I suppose we can wait together, no?"

Lovino snorted. "My flight leaves in fifteen minutes," he said. "I can't wait with anyone. Anyway don't you already have two friends to wait with?" He looked at Francis and searched for a trace of the arrogant potato bastard. Actually just glared, as per usual.

"Gilbert is already on his flight, and my flight is leaving in a half an hour, so I cannot wait with him for long. Arthur made sure that I would leave on the first flight. And I can't cancel the ticket, he made sure of that too," he said with a chuckle.

Lovino looked at the Spaniard. "Good luck with that. I'm leaving now," he said, as a voice over called for the passengers of the flight to Rome to board. As Lovino turned around, however, he caught a glimpse of something that made him pause. He could have sworn that was - he started making his way towards where he had seen what he thought he had seen, but the glimpse was gone and he couldn't find them anymore.

"Lovi? Lovino, are you alright?"

_I swear I saw them._

The Italian looked back at the four he had been with, and back, and shrugged. "I just thought I saw someone. Never mind, it was my mind playing tricks on me. Feli, we're leaving, move." And then he noticed that Francis was wearing the Crocs. "Wine bastard, I think you're sense of style is slipping, those are ridiculous. Not that everything doesn't look ridiculous on you," he shot and took joy from Francis' annoyed look - everyone had heard of the bet. He picked up his suitcase and with quick (and not extremely polite) good-byes both Italian nations were on their way. Francis was left with Antonio, and a sudden feeling coursed through Francis - odd, strange, it felt like there was unwanted presence around him, somewhere. He looked at the Spaniard next to him, who was looking at him strangely - as if saying "you felt it, too?" Francis' thoughts immediately shifted to the Englishman who had been acting strange since the day before yesterday, when he had first announced to everyone they would all be leaving soon. He was about to ask the Italian brothers, who were already gone.

They arrived at their gate, and the plane had only just started boarding. Lovino was still looking around, slightly unnerved. He wasn't usually paranoid, but seeing the two people he thought he had seen was unnerving, even if it were only his mind playing a goddamn trick on him. And the problem was, he now thought that he had gotten a second glimpse. He stood on one of the chairs, getting looks of question directed at him, but couldn't see what he thought he had seen again. There were so many people around, bustling to and fro, and he couldn't see them.

"Feli," he said as he descended from the chair. "Remind me again, what do Luciano and Flavio look like, again?"

Feliciano stopped his mindless blabbering, and regarded his brother with a strange look on his face. "Who and who?"

"Luciano and - our counterparts, idiot! Remember the two _mocciosi_ whose main aim in life is to wreak havoc?" Lovino snapped. Feliciano looked confused for a minute before he remembered them.

"Oh, I think that the one who hates me has auburn-ish hair and really scary red eyes," Feliciano said with a look of thought on his face. "And uh the other has like blond hair."

Lovino glared. " _Stupefacente. Dio, che è stato utile._ There's a fucking hell of a lot of blond and auburn haired people here!"

"Well, what am I supposed to do, I don't know, I haven't seen them in ages!" Feliciano shrugged. Lovino smacked his arm.

"Shut up, _bastardo_ , they might hear us."

At that, Feliciano was confused. "Who might hear us?"

Lovino looked around. "No-one."

The Northern Italian brother gave up and shrugged, turning back to the line and waiting to board the plane. Lovino also turned back, and went back to glaring at everyone in a slightly observing way - he didn't want to miss anything that happened around him. Arthur was weird at the meeting, and he would be damned if he didn't pay attention to that. The Brit had perhaps the best composure out of all the nations, but now had acted weird - and then suddenly Lovino has two glimpses of perhaps the worst fucking people on this planet - or universe or whatever, he wasn't exactly sure where they were. He would be damned if he didn't care now.

* * *

Kiku jolted upright in his chair. Yao, who was sitting in the same room, looked up at the brusque movement from the usually graceful and calm nation. He had been hunched over his laptop, trying to find a ticket for the earliest plane - a direct flight, he most certainly did not want to fly through Moscow and risk being on the same flight as Ivan, who still was able to scare the living out of the Chinese man. And now that the Russian was apparently involved with a certain and extremely volatile American who was able to annoy anyone with one word, he had no way to predict in what mood would Ivan be next time he saw him.

Kiku stood from his chair and went to his own room wordlessly. Their rooms were adjoining, and the door was currently open. They had been in Yao's room, hanging out and reading. Yao didn't find this sudden disappearance strange, other than the fact that the younger nation had actually _jolted_ up. It just didn't fit the character. He called out to his brother. Kiku came to stand at the door.

"Yes, Yao-san?"

"看在上帝的份上, stop calling me that, I'm your brother and I'm Chinese." Yao shook his head before coming back to what he wanted to say. "What was that all about?"

"What was what about?" Kiku asked, his voice not oscillating a bit.

"What happened, you just jerked up?" Yao questioned, clearly spelling it out for the innocent-acting Kiku. Sometimes his brother could also be extremely annoying in a very subtle way.

"Oh, I just thought I forgot to pack my katana, I can't forget that into a hotel." The smaller man went back to his room.

Yao wasn't even going to ask why exactly he had his katana with him, nor would he ask how he was planning on getting it past security. Actually, how he had gotten it past security when he _came_ here was a mystery of itself.

In his room, Kiku opened his briefcase and dug for his airplane ticket. Finding it, he read it over, and found that his plane would leave tomorrow, and he wouldn't be able to cancel it. This would be the last time he would put Alfred in charge of getting him anything, because he would most likely mess it up anyway. And now, when he wanted to get back to Japan as quickly as possible, he would have to wait for a long, long while. Alright, a day, it could be worse, but right now, he had just about the worst feeling that a day would be too much to wait.

He had felt someone enter his country. However, for now, Kiku would not worry. If that person did not leave the country, then there would probably be trouble - the feeling was just too abnormal to be ignored.

And suddenly, he hears Yao's chair scrape against the floor. The Chinese man then entered Kiku's bedroom, and raised an eyebrow. "Did you feel like someone just entered your country?" Kiku nodded slowly. It wasn't just him. "Don't you find it strange how Opium there starts to act strange and then strange feelings happen?" Kiku shrugged. He hadn't thought about that.

"Maybe it is something else, not Arthur necessarily?" Kiku proposed.

"It wouldn't be the first time that bastard's lied to us. Everyone, in fact." Yao shook his head. Though he didn't hate Arthur, he would use every occasion to bring it up.

* * *

"Ivan?" Muffled acknowledgement. "Ivan, I need to pac- ah, no - damn it, Braginsky!" Alfred struggled to shove the Russian away from him as he was trying to pack (unsuccessfully). So far, he had managed to place two shirts into the open suitcase. The rest was scattered around the hotel room, along with all of his papers and such. The bed was a complete mess, and he hadn't even gone to the bathroom yet. Not that he was in a hurry, he had managed to get a ticket for the next day, he knew he would need ages to pack. And that was because there was a certain nation who was currently roaming his hands over Alfred's hips and trying to lure the young man into the mussed bed. Alfred whipped around to face the taller nation, and looked up to meet violet eyes which had a playful look to them. Alfred simply ducked away from the Russian's touch and went to pick up his belongings.

"My, my, Fredka, you never change, do you?" Ivan chuckled, and looked as the American bent to snatch something from under the bed - giving him a very lovely view at the same time. Of course, the American was completely ignorant of that fact. He just stood back up to see Ivan staring at him, and Alfred gave him a slightly mystified look.

"Stop calling me that, makes me sound like I'm Russian or something. You don't own me," he retorted, and was about to continue when Ivan interjected.

"Want to debate that?" He spoke with a sultry voice and smirked as Alfred's face lit up - but he was ignored as Alfred continued.

"What's that even supposed mean, that I never change?" Alfred asked, still busy packing up his belongings. Ivan sat down on the bed, as he had already packed everything he had. He was efficient, unlike the nation who was currently running around his room trying to find everything he owned and had so intelligently unpacked into the small room.

"Oh, nothing really," Ivan shrugged. He knew the American would get more and more curious, and he wanted to see him frustrated. It was always fun to get a rise out of him. "Do you need help packing?" He asked, pretending to make himself helpful and changing the subject.

"No, I don't, I'm capable of doin' it myself. And what's that nothing much supposed to mean? You can never say anything straight, can you?"

"Whatever do you mean, Fredka?" Alfred glared at him at the nickname. "I'll stop calling you that when you stop calling me Braginsky." Alfred was about to insist for Ivan to just tell him as Ivan continued. "I just mean that you always deny everything, even though you should just give in." At the quizzical look Alfred shot him, Ivan grabbed his wrist. "You've always been much better at actions, not words." Ivan pulled him closer, as Alfred squirmed out of Ivan's loose grasp. "See?" Ivan smiled in victory.

"Dude, I don't see what you mean, and I gotta pack. If I don't, I'll miss my flight and Artie'll be mad and I sure as hell don't want a pissed off ex-Empire shouting at me. I swear, that guy is scary when it's seven in the morning and he hasn't had his tea and he's angry - and you know it, I saw you backing away. And oh, if I go down because of you, -"

"I quite liked it when you went down on-"

"Al!" The door swung open as Alfred's face was going a bright red and he was about to respond to Ivan's comment. The open doorway revealed Matthew, who entered though he technically wasn't invited. Anything that was Alfred's was Matthew's and vice versa. He ignored the relieved and annoyed looks he was receiving from the two present nations, and looked at Alfred. "Do you wanna go grab lunch? I'm hungry and I haven't had anything besides breakfast?" He asked.

Now, say what you will about Alfred, but he was actually good at reading the atmosphere. Though most of the time he just decided to ignore it, a nation could not become a world superpower by being completely oblivious to his surroundings. And Matthew knew that as he sent Alfred a meaningful look that they had perfected, meaning ' _I need to talk to you but it's private so just agree to this crappy excuse I made up and come with me'_. Alfred caught it easily, it had been a look they used very often (mainly when their bosses were in a meeting and they were getting bored so they snuck off to the nearest bar or something similar. Ivan just glared at the interruption - he still wasn't sure whether or not he liked the Canadian. He was quiet and hard to get to know, but Ivan also had suspicions that that was exactly what he did not like about Matthew, because the fellow northern nation was able to be extremely deadly when he wanted to. The ice hockey matches that Ivan, Alfred, Matthew, Berwald and Tino sometimes had were proof enough. And suddenly, Alfred tensed up momentarily, feeling a strange shiver go down his spine - a shiver he did not like at all. And at the look Matthew was now giving him, he had felt it too, earlier, and Alfred now wanted to know more.

"Yeah, sure thing, bro, I'll finish packing later," Alfred stated, dropping the clothes he had in his arms into the open and messy suitcase. Ivan threw his arms up into the air.

"Alfred, you said you were too busy to-"

"Yeah, well, I lied," Alfred said with a sarcastic smile and went out the door.

_"Hypocrite!"_ Ivan shot after him. Matthew snickered lightly.

"Am not!" Alfred reappeared in the door. "And it's not like it's any of your business what I do and don't do, it's not like I'm your boyfriend."

At that, Ivan placed a wicked grin on his face, stood up and walked over to the American. "We'll see about that, and it is my business, _особенно когда я мог бы трахать вам,_ " Ivan whispered. He knew Alfred understood it, and hoped that Matthew, who was looking at him slightly suspiciously couldn't. As Matthew's look didn't change, he could only assume that he did not. At that, Alfred mumbled for him to "shut up" and left the room. Matthew lingered a bit, looking at the Russian as if evaluating him. He finally spoke up.

"Okay, I still don't like _you_ for all the useless crap you two pulled for half a century a while ago, and so you should know that if you ever hurt Alfred you can be sure that hockey isn't the only place where I can kick your ass." With that, the Canadian left, and Ivan stared after the two Americans. Those two were sometimes a worrying pair. Alfred was just unpredictable, and Matthew was... quiet, like an unseen threat.

Ivan shook his head and decided to help Alfred in his packing - Lord knew Alfred would forget something like his passport if allowed to do his own packing. He looked around the hotel room, and wondered how on Earth the American had managed, in the three or so days he had been here, to make the place look like it was Alfred's house. Though Ivan had been there only a number of times, and each of those times the house had been perfectly clean, he had the feeling that it was only clean because Alfred had cleaned it in a hurry in order to one-up Ivan (whose house was _always_ clean). There were a few traces of a hurried cleaning - a sock shoved under the couch or something similar. Ivan had the idea that usually, this would be what Alfred's home looked like: clothes lying on the bed, on chairs, on the floor, some shirts barely hanging in the closet; papers scattered on every single flat surface that was available - he had found some that had somehow managed to migrate halfway into the bathroom; a laptop here, a charger there, the safe was open and he could see bills had been shoved into several different pockets of shirts, trousers and jackets and coats. As he began picking up and folding Alfred's clothes - those that were currently in the suitcase, he decided to go systematically - he felt something wash over him, a presence, and he whipped out his pipe from his coat, ready to beat the living out of whoever was there. Finding no-one after searching the room thoroughly, but still having the same feeling, he realised it was because someone had entered Russia. And he did not like the feeling, it was abnormal and too strong. Lucky him that his plane left in the evening so he could try to track down the person who had given him a thorough scare.

After a pause, he returned to packing. And feeling a bit silly for doing Alfred's packing.

* * *

"My plane leaves in a couple of hours, we've got enough to time to find the liar and ask for an explanation."

"Matthew I really wanted to eat, though, I'm hungry," Alfred whined. Matthew brushed him off and ignored his complaints, that had been going on for at least five minutes. Both knew the feeling they had had was the same, and they were about to go and find the one person who could tell them maybe who it was that had suddenly dropped by for a visit. Alfred speculated that he was probably in his home, and so that was where they were headed. They had taken a taxi, and Matthew had told the driver to ignore everything his brother said - Alfred was desperately trying to get to a McDonald's.

"You should have eaten at breakfast!" Matthew snapped, getting annoyed at Alfred's constant whinging.

"I did!" Alfred huffed. He came up with an idea. "It's like - I'm a hobbit, I have breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, tea, dinner and supper. Think I missed something," he said as he started counting. Matthew's eyes shot to Alfred, looking at him in surprise.

"Since when have you read anything that is over ten years old and contains words bigger than three syllables, and less than a thousand guns?" Matthew asked, surprised his brother had read _anything_.

"I love how y'all think I'm just completely stupid and I don't read or know anything at all. Newsflash, who's the world superpower, bitches?" Alfred snarled at his brother. "And that's all besides the point, I'm goddamned hungry! Still!"

Matthew shook his head and ignored him once again, and now they arrived at the house. Both got out of the car, Alfred grumbling something about he definitely would get no food there, nor would he eat anything if he were offered something. Matthew rang the doorbell. Alfred did so five times just to annoy the Briton because of whom he was now dying of hunger. He was starving, for God's sake. And now, Arthur had the audacity not to answer. They stood there, knocking for five minutes, ringing the doorbell, but no answer came. Alfred finally grew tired and took his phone, intent on calling the island nation. He dialled the number and waited, but it went to voicemail. He tried another time, and finally there was an answer.

" _What can I do you for this time, Alfred?"_ A tired and annoyed voice asked. Alfred could almost see Arthur rubbing his temples.

"Dude, where are you? Me and Mattie are standin' outside your door, and like where are you if you're not here?" Matthew looked at him, raising his eyebrows. Alfred shrugged.

" _Grammar, Alfred, you hurt my soul. And I do apologise for not spending my entire life in my house waiting for you to pay me a visit,"_ the sarcasm was dripping through the phone. _"I have a country to run, you realise that, and furthermore my brother is missing, and I intend to find him."_

"'Kay, but there's another problem you gotta address. And that problem is that me and - _Mattie and I_ just suddenly, out of nowhere, felt as if someone had just entered our countries. And that's not like a Presidential visit or something. I'd know about that, and that's not the normal mortal human feeling, you know?"

There was silence at the other end of the line. " _I'll call you back."_ And he hung up.

"Arthur? Yo, Arthur? You can't just hang up!" Alfred almost shouted at the phone.

"What did he say?" Matthew asked.

"Just that he'll call me back, and he better do so, because I don't like this - he's being all weird and secretive, and I don't like it at all," Alfred rambled, annoyance creeping into his voice. Arthur never told him really anything when something was wrong.

And as he looked at Matthew, who was frowning, he had the feeling that something would soon be _very_ wrong.

* * *

Arthur sat in the train, fidgeting about, unable to stay still. He had just over three and a half hours yet to kill, having been on the train already long enough for his taste. He had an idea about what he would find in Edinburgh, but still was hoping that it was just him being paranoid. Except that he knew that he had been an Empire - and to be one, one had to have pretty good instincts, feelings and deduction skills. And right now, what his gut told him was that Allistair had somehow come into contact with the Second Players - most likely in an accident - and therefore had an idea of what would happen. He had tried to warn Arthur, and of course that warning came too late - just. And now he was dreading what he would find in Allistair's estate. But what he was wondering was why had nothing happened yet? If Oliver, or someone else, had passed through a portal and come into Scotland, then why had nothing happened yet? Arthur had a feeling he would easily and quickly see a change in government or something similar if something happened to Allistair.

Unless they, whoever it was, was waiting for the right moment, waiting for something to-

His eyes widened and he quickly took out his phone, speed-dialling the Prime Minister.

" _Yes, Arthur?"_ He sounded a bit exasperated and worried. Arthur had called him enough times in the past few days to do that.

"Prime Minister, sir, where are you now?"

_"I am currently at Downing Street. I came on yesterday's late-night train as per your request. In fact, I should be asking that same question of you."_

Arthur knew his boss would soon be either terribly worried or absolutely annoyed with the personification, and rightly so. "I, uh... All due respect, sir, but I think you should hear me out and just trust me on this one." No answer, just a sigh. "I am currently on a train to Scotland, but there is a perfectly reasonable reason for that. All I can ask, sir, is that you do not ask me why, it would be far beyond your understanding- no offence meant, sir." Arthur waited.

_"When do you think you will be back?"_

"I'll have to see that for definitive when I am in Scotland, but I should think either late tonight or tomorrow. It really depends on the situation that is up there. Oh, and one more thing. Could you perhaps keep the radio or television on, sir, today? And update me if anything happens, especially regarding Scotland, its government and English-Scottish relations. And keep your telephone open."

_"Should I ask why, or just go along with this?"_

"Go along, sir, because I cannot provide you with an explanation yet."

_"All right, I will. But Arthur, though I may not understand your world, I am still in charge. And whether or not you think I can handle it, you will give me an explanation - a full explanation - upon your return. Do you hear me?"_

Arthur sighed. "Yes, sir." _Hopefully the country is still whole by then._ "Good-bye, sir, I will keep you updated if something changes."

_"As will I. I will speak to you later."_ And they hung up. In the last five days, Arthur had probably been more trouble to his boss than he had been to any other of his Prime Ministers in the last fifty years. He did not always send mixed messages, but right now, he was sending them and pretty badly so.

* * *

Oliver checked the phone he had gotten (stolen) right before the others had begun to leave, and therefore had been able to give them a number they could reach him at once they had gotten themselves a mobile. It was now evening, and he was about to call Scott - but he read through all the messages first, not that there was naything he really didn't expect. There were currently eight new messages, and he thought that more would be soon arriving.

[New message, 11:04]

_It's Andres. I'm in Spain. I received a message from the two Italies about the mafia - might work here, too. I'll keep you updated._

[New message, 11:46]

_Oliver, this is Lutz. Gilen and I have arrived, we are currently in Berlin. We will lie low for a while, I managed to find out that Gilbert and Ludwig will soon get back here. I will send you a message as soon as something new comes up._

[New message, 11:57]

_This is Francois, Oliver. I landed in Paris. I don't see how this is such a wonderful places. It's all clean and such. Though it won't take long to fix that._

[New message, 12:32]

_In Tokyo. Will keep you updated._

_-Kuro_

[New message, 12:39]

_I'm in China. Oh, this is Xiao, suppose you figured it out already, though. I can't wait to cause some trouble here, but I think it'll be pretty easy - a lot of people means a lot of opinions and a lot of stirring up to do. I'll message you later. Or maybe not, if I forget or something. And this is the last time I'm taking a late-night flight, I couldn't sleep because of the sound. I'm so jet-lagged! Oh, I already have a contact here! It's good to know where to look, but I suppose we've been doing this for a while already. Bye!_

[New message, 13:40]

_I'm now in Toronto. I'll get to Ottawa at some point, though the flight here was earlier. Mattieu._

[New message, 13:52]

_In Washington, and this place is fucking awful. Sorry not sorry for language or whatever. Give my number to everyone else, you know the stuff. I don't think the loud-mouthed idiot is here. Allen._

[New message, 14:01]

_Moscow is cold, but nothing I can't take. I'll see what I can do. It won't take long to find what I'm looking for. -Dmitri_

It seemed as if everyone had gotten to their homes (or what was soon to be their homes and their kingdoms), and was ready to cause trouble. Oliver cracked a grin. It was all going very well, so far, and his idiot of a counterpart hadn't managed to close the borders in time - though it was lucky it was that way for himself and all the other Second Players, obviously. All of Arthur's efforts from now on would most likely be in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> особенно когда я мог бы трахать вам - especially when I could be doing you (not literal translation, because as far as I know that verb only works in English - I am a trilingual person, but I still have to use Google Translate for these...)


	6. Change The World

_"The worst enemy you can meet will always be yourself;  
you lie in wait for yourself in caverns and forests."_

_-Friedrich Nietzsche_

Alfred breathed in the scent of freedom and liberty and - oh thank God, he _finally_ found Starbucks! It felt good to be back at home, back in the States, back where he belonged, and back where everything that was good was. Like Starbucks. And he was currently at freedom to do whatever he wanted, because even though he was technically supposed to tell the Secret Service whenever he was arriving, and they still thought he would be flying in in only a few days, he had decided not to so that he could spend a day on his own. It was always fun to annoy the Secret Service, but Alfred would give them another day of respite. Or half a day, because he had only landed after lunchtime. Which reminded him that he was, in fact, hungry once again. He didn't mind airplane food, but nothing beat a good ol' burger. Ever. First, however, he was still in dire need of coffee - jet-lag was not one of Alfred's greatest friends, and he would kick its ass by being strung up on caffeine the rest of the day. He turned on his phone, and there were no new messages or calls. He frowned. It had been, what, eight hours since he boarded the plane, and before that he had given Arthur an entire day to call him back - which he had said he would - and he had not done so. This was both bugging and worrying Alfred, as he knew the Englishman was usually very good at keeping to a timetable he himself had set. Unless Arthur had forgotten, which was unlikely but possible. He had just ordered his coffee to go and decided he would do some sight-seeing in his own capital (he knew the place by heart, but hey, there might be something new) when his phone started ringing. He scrambled for it, surprised by the sudden call - maybe it was Arthur, finally remembering him and calling to tell-

He blanched slightly. The Caller ID flashed "Boss" and he just knew that he was in some trouble. Maybe he knew Alfred had arrived, maybe he wanted him to immediately get to the White House and that would be it for his day of fun and... he still hadn't answered. Whoops.

"Hey, Boss! How're ya d-"

" _Alfred, when did you plan on telling me you were getting back?"_ Okay, so he didn't know Alfred had landed yet, he could get out of it if he played his cards right.

"Oh, I'm not even at the airport yet so I planned on calling you like ten minutes before my plane boarded. I should get he - there sometime tomorrow," he explained as smoothly as he could, one hiccup didn't matter too much.

_"I know you already are in D.C., standing in Starbucks."_ Okay that was just freaky. He'd just basically said he did not know Alfred was coming, how would he know he was already there?

"Okay you sound like a stalker and that's creepy-"

_"I found out in a very creative manner that you were on a plane and had the Secret Service - whom, may I remind you, you are supposed to tell when you are returning - locate you. Your phone still has that chip in it, no President has ever trusted you fully."_

"Oh. I guess it slipped my mind." Alfred cringed - worst excuse he'd ever given. Well, no, not really, there had been way worse. "Okay, okay, I'll come there in a moment, but okay, how did you find out I was-"

_"Alfred, I do not need you to come back, because we're going straight to the airport and onto a plane anyway. I will come with you this time, I'm currently in the car."_ What the hell? _"We have business to attend to, and I have a feeling this has to do with something that happened at the Conference. You haven't gotten into trouble with... anyone, have you?"_

Alfred had no idea what his boss was on about, and he was really tired, he didn't want to get on another plane! "No, I haven't this time! And nothing happened at the Conference, I swear to God - and God has blessed America so he blessed _me_ so I'm telling the truth!" He was rambling. "Where're we going anyway?"

His boss sighed - Alfred was a lot to deal with. _"We're going to Russia, because I was personally asked to by the President."_ Uh-oh. _"I'm not sure why exactly, but he sounded somewhat annoyed with bit of delight. Which is worrying. If you've done anything to upset Ivan, you are solely to blame for this."_

Yeah, right, like what he had done would upset Ivan - Alfred was probably more upset about it, he'd slept with a former communist. He'd once actually used the sentence "Better dead than Red" very often himself, at a time. Ivan was just feeling so goddamn smug about it. "Well I don't know about upset, but-"

_"I hope you know you are liable here,"_ his boss stated, no humour in his voice.

"Yeah, yeah, but don't worry, I did nothing!" He'd have a word with Ivan as soon as he hung up with his boss.

_"Alright, we'll see that. Get into the car, we're leaving."_

"Yeah, but give me a minute, they messed up my coffee I need a new one. I'm freakin' jet-lagged, give me a break."

_"A minute, Alfred."_ He hung up, and Alfred immediately went through his contacts - 'Siberian asshole'. Alfred snickered. He'd love to see Ivan's face if he ever saw that. He'd already ended up punching Alfred for having him under 'Commie' a number of years ago (though Alfred actually had thrown the first punch, but still) and Alfred had thought it was not creative enough so he'd changed it. Though there was better, this one would probably piss Ivan off anyway. He pressed call. It rang five times.

_"Кто вы, там лучше быть чертовски хорошая причина для этого вызова,"_ a groggy and very annoyed voice spoke. Alfred did some quick mental maths, and he concluded that it was currently about eight or nine in the evening in Moscow, so Ivan had no excuse to be sleeping.

"I just love it when you talk dirty," he sneered into the phone. "No, okay, Ivan, two questions." There was a groan. "Why the fuck are you sleeping now? No need to answer that, actually, you're just weird. And two, why the fuck does my boss want me to fly _there_? Now? After he's found out I was coming back without me saying a word to him?"

There was a pause at the end of the line. _"To answer your first question, I am tired because there is jet-lag and airplane travel that have taken away all my energy. Second, how on Earth would I know? It's not-"_ There was a thoughtful pause. _"No, I think I do know, actually."_

"Well?" His new coffee came and he started slowly directing himself out the door.

_"Natalya came to visit me earlier today - my boss, to be more accurate. At one point, I left the room, and when I came back they were saying their good-byes. Has my sister spoken to you yet?"_ Ivan asked.

"No, why?"

Ivan sighed. _"Because she probably told my boss about our... ah... relations."_ Alfred did a double-take. It was no surprise she knew, but why would she report to Ivan's boss? _"She's very protective, and I am convinced that it is her way to ensure that... something, I'm not quite sure what. Honestly, I think it is a sibling thing - your brother was no better."_ What had Matthew done? _"I think that explains why my boss was wittering on about 'better relations' and 'encourage trade and politics' and such. Now if you will let me sleep and get on the plane, we can sort this out."_

"Ivan - no, hey - no!" He hung up. "God damned Russki," he mumbled.

He walked out the door and into the car, and as he saw his boss, who had his arms crossed and awaiting, he held his hands up in defence as he climbed in. "I swear I didn't do anything, I can explain everything! No, um, not everything, because I don't know how much you know, but-"

"Alfred, has anyone ever told you you are a pain?"

* * *

Francis flitted about his house, his mind drifting between what and where he should have dinner and how he should but his neighbour across the channel with the magnificently huge eyebrows. There also a small nagging voice that his mind ignored, whinging about the feeling he had had at the airport. He decided to ignored it for another twenty four hours, because that might mean he had nothing to worry about.

If he had, he would deal with it later.

It had been about twelve hours since he had arrived back to France, and his boss had already invited a number of prominent politicians to dinner to deal with the silliness going on with the government. He sighed in resignation - there was no getting out of this. The Prime Minister usually bitched about the Finance Minister, who played cat and dog with the minister for both Foreign _and_ Domestic Affairs. He did not see the point or the reason why, but his politicians seemed to be entertaining the long-standing idea that they did not have to get anything done.

He turned the radio on, to listen to some news before the dinner - he would most likely end up staying there for about three or even four hours, listening to arguments over wine, and he had not seen any news since this morning. He'd been distracted by some paperwork. And it was eight o'clock.

_"...a group of protesters in Lyon were apprehended by the police, but after an hour of marching they dismantled and vacated the streets."_

Francis sighed. It was becoming unnaturally normal, these little marches and protests. Not that they had never been, it just seemed there was a new one every week.

_"The number of refugees within the country has been reduced..."_

Francis went to tying a black tie to his neck, listening only with a half-hearted ear.

_"Now to international news. Britain is currently shutting all of its airports and seaports, and the train travelling the Channel has temporarily been suspended."_

Who did what? Francis turned the radio up.

_"The reason for this is yet unclear, but there have been comments amongst politicians about this being due to unexpected domestic occurrences. Some prominent figures, such as current international affairs and politics expert Alain Ledon, have speculated theories such as the sudden outbreak of an epidemic, or the escalation of domestic affairs."_

He was calling Arthur immediately.

When he hit voicemail, he immediately dropped any courtesy and or jokes. "Arthur, call me back immediately, or I swear I will take a helicopter and land directly on your House of Parliament, see how you like that." He hung up, and was debating whether to just sit and wait for the call to return or just go to the dinner. He knew Arthur would not answer for a while yet, so he might as well go eat.

* * *

It was dark, and High Street was eerily quiet. The old, medieval buildings loomed tall into the black sky, and a few lamps illuminated the intricate figures surrounding the high wooden door of the St. Giles Cathedral. Edinburgh was silent, and it was such a strange sight. No people on the streets, no lights coming from restaurants or bars... It looked almost dead, but he supposed that that's because it nearly _was_. Arthur was pacing the same square when he heard his ringtone, and checking it, he saw it was the frog himself. No doubt that by now the sudden news had crossed the channel and baffled quite a few people. He just knew it was too late, but it was a last desperate attempt.

_"Prime Minister, I demand that all the borders be closed immediately - air and sea."_

The PM had also been just as, if not more, baffled than the foreigners would probably be, but when he had insisted, extremely demanding, his request was met. And within an hour all English airports and seaports were closed, the Welsh were quickly following - though not without some minor protest, and the Northern Irish were reluctantly complying. Only the Scottish were refusing to comply, and Arthur now knew why. He was ignoring the phone, trying to get his thoughts together. He had to board a train out of Edinburgh, immediately, but he also knew that would be a point of no return. He'd been _told_ so.

_"If you leave, I will close all Scottish borders. If you don't leave, I'll have the police after you."_

How the man reminded him of his older brother, but at the same time, the Scotsman was so different from the man he defined as family. He had found his brother locked within his own house, in the basement, of course, from a dual effect of magic and house arrest - both counterparts, the one from this universe and the one from the opposite universe, had been there, though Allistair looked barely conscious. Arthur had tried every trick and spell he knew in the book, but the Second Player had driven him out after hours on end of bargaining, arguing and fighting. And now, he was stuck in an impasse. He had called his Prime Minister and told him of his return.

_"You have exactly twelve hours..._

_...and I will know if you haven't left."_

But now, so many pieces clicked into place. Why Allistair hadn't been answering phone calls or attempts at contacting, why his Prime Minister hadn't found them, and why Scotland - as in the country - seemed to be doing fine. Allistair wasn't dead, he was still in control - Arthur had a suspicion that this was because killing Allistair would immediately cause chaos within the country, and that would be only too obvious. Though Arthur had a suspicion that he could guess how this situation would go down. He had experienced this once before, when Oliver had once attempted to usurp power from Arthur. He had slowly begun turning people against their nation, rise against their leader, and had placed himself at their lead. The only reason that all other successful revolutions of the world had not resulted in a Second Player gaining power was because Arthur had locked them all up already.

He concluded there were two ways for their counterparts to take power from them: directly kill them, or turn their people against them. And he had an idea that the second option would be reoccurring very often from this point onward if he let the situation slip - if he hadn't already.

_"We want to see you people suffer. And at the same time, get what we want."_

The First Players would very likely be kept alive as their nations were brought down. Arthur sighed. It would be a typical, completely _sick_ form of torture for them, now wouldn't it?

He sighed again, his frustration and desperation and helplessness all shoved into that one breath. He had now sat down on a bench, his head hung as he stared at the pavement of the square. His fingers tapped on his leg, unnerved, twitching to hold something. He finally gave in, if only to calm his nerves, and dug into his pockets before finding the small, cold, metallic lighter and the half-empty pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took a long drag from it, and felt a calm wave wash over him, dampening his nervosity but not dragging it away. He glanced at his watch. He had half an hour to get the hell away from the country - he would achieve nothing from jail.

He stood. He had two choices. Either he could attempt to deal with it, or warn the other countries.

He knew he would most likely regret this, what with it being just about the worst option he could have chosen at the moment, but he would do as much as he could by himself. He could imagine Francis immediately fussing, or Alfred freaking out and ordering a full-blown attack. He could see Matthew's eyes as they flicker in stress, or Ivan as he would freeze over with an icy grin. He could see Kiku who would hide away his fear, or Yao who would immediately attack him as the culprit, or Ludwig whose mind shut down into the automatic pilot mode of cool and composed.

He saw all these things in his mind, and he could not let them happen.

Not yet.

However, he could only hope that Francis was not stupid enough to fly over the channel. Every country had a private helicopter (well, private in the way that it was their bosses', so technically it was theirs), and he knew that Francis could very well fly it if the need came. He had half a mind to respond to the Frenchman's call, but maybe ignoring it would make it go away, maybe he would leave him alone and not push the issue.

He stood, making a half-hearted decision. Really, what else was there for him to do? He began making his way to Edinburgh's train station, where he would get onto a train once more, make his way back to London, and sort the situation out. He had no idea what he would do to actually sort the situation out, however. He could only hope for the best, but he would fear the worst.

* * *

"Moscow's pretty, sure, but the coffee's awful."

"Alfred."

"Seriously, man, the stuff is bleak. And it doesn't taste like it has any caffeine in it. What do you people live on?"

"Other things than ridiculous amounts of nerve-stimulating psychoactive drugs," Ivan countered, their bosses staring at them with a hopeless look.

"Dude, you just used a uselessly long and fancy chemical description for _caffeine_ , what the heck?" Alfred yawned. "I haven't slept in ages, can I just _sleep -_ you guys don't need me here!" His accent was slipping from his usual New Yorker, and Ivan was finding it sort of cute as a drawl edged its way into Alfred's speech. Before either of their bosses could answer, Ivan stood from the table.

"I will show Alfred a place where he can sleep," he said as he grabbed hold of the American and half-dragged him up the stairs.

"Bro, I can walk!" Alfred shouted as he tripped on a stair. They were at Ivan's house, which wasn't as bare as he remembered it from the Cold War days. There was more art and stuff on the walls and things like that. "Ivan, okay, calm down, I can wal - whoa!" He screamed (in a very manly manner, of course) as he felt his feet swept from under him - literally, not the romantic type. He felt confused for a bit before the world straightened out again. What the - "Braginsky, put me _the fuck_ down!" He was thrown over Ivan's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Ivan just laughed.

"We're just about in my room, calm down." Alfred resigned himself to his fate before he processed Ivan's words. He could easily punch the Russian and juts climb the stairs himself, but it was actually less effort on his part this way.

"He-hey, no, not your room, I'm purty sure ya got a guest room here somewhere, I remember there is, I'm _not_ sleepin' in your bed," Alfred huffed.

"Alfred, you've done that already a number of times. Stop making it out as being such an abnormally huge deal and face the fact that I changed the guestroom into a study ten years ago."

"What?! Why? Why'd you do that? You already have a study, you don't need another!" Ivan didn't answer, turning a corner. "Bragins- ow!" He shouted as he was thrown onto something - something soft, and warm, and - it was a bed! Oh thank the Lord, there was a bed, with sheets and a duvet and pillows and warmth and everything he wanted at the moment. He could feel sleep already tugging at his eyes and his brain was slowly blacking out. He started mussing about the bed, and digging himself a comfortable space into it between the sheets. He covered himself almost entirely, before he started noticing his jeans felt uncomfortable and his shirt itched. He took them off, not quite ripping them but tossing them off, all the while forgetting about the other nation in the room. Until the taller nation chuckled lightly. "Whoa, wait, hey, no way - you ain't stayin' here while I'm sleepin'!" He was fully awake because of a small rush of awareness. He wouldn't be so much longer.

"Alfred." The other stared. "That is my bed, the only bed in the house, and I woke up at one in the morning because my sister called me. And then I could not fall asleep. And at the moment, I am extremely tired." Ivan took off his coat, the one he always wore. Alfred bundled up all the sheets and started stealing them all away from any place Ivan might settle. They were his now. His, not Ivan's - not his to take nor his to share. Alfred would not give them up, not in the least. "I am sure our bosses can sort it out on their own, they want to talk trade anyway." Ivan was stripping himself in a similar fashion to Alfred, and as he sat down on the edge of the bed, he noticed Alfred's possessiveness. "And this," he grabbed one edge of the sheets, "is still my bed." He yanked hard on the sheets, and Alfred slightly flew into Ivan's direction before he relaxed his hold a bit. And lost most of the sheets from his grasp by doing that.

"It's cold! I'm cold! Ivan seriously give them back I'm freezing 'cuz it's cold an' it seems you guys haven't invented radiators and it's winter all a time here - give back!" They engaged in a short-lived tug of war, which - surprise - Alfred lost. Ivan lay down on the other side of the bed, and closed his eyes. Alfred huffed, and seeing he had no option because he was jut so tired, gave up and lay down.

Five minutes later, he still hadn't found sleep, because he was uncomfortable and cold. He barely had any part of the sheets. He looked at Ivan, whom he deemed to have fallen asleep. Alfred then moved to nuzzle closer to the he swung his arm over Ivan's chest and his leg between Ivan's, at the same time snuggling under the sheets, he felt comfortable - not that he would _ever_ admit it out loud. Though he realised with slight horror he probably would never have to, because Ivan took hold of Alfred, and pulled him closer. As a slight giggle escaped the Russian, Alfred grumbled "shut up". They fell asleep two minutes later.

They woke up after what felt like a minute due to Alfred's phone ringing off the hook. Ivan had been nudging him for at least ten minutes, and he was kicked off the bed after fifteen - after he had nearly punched Ivan for waking him up.

" _What?_ " he hissed with a hoarse voice into the phone, probably a very uncharacteristic voice for Alfred.

_"Uh... Alfred, is that you?"_ Francis. Why the fuck Francis.

"No, it's Alfred's morning self. If this isn't good he'll come and murder you in your sleep tomorrow," Alfred snapped. As he saw Ivan raise an amused eyebrow, he glared.

_"_ Charmant _. I was wondering if you had heard anything from Arthur."_

"Since when? Last I spoke to him was when me and Mattie were at his house and he was - I don't know where. That was before either of us boarded. Why?" Alfred asked, concern edging into his voice.

_"Well, for me, it has been complete radio silence for ages. I haven't spoken to him since he suddenly left his house that one - probably the same morning you're talking about, he suddenly realised something and took off. Kicked Dylan and me straight out of his house."_

"I'll... uh... What do I do?" He had no clue, but he wanted to help.

_"I don't know. See if you can reach him, perhaps? If that does not work, we can- Ludwig is calling, I'm sure he's seen the news, too."_

"News? Did something happen?"

_"Did something happen? My poor Alfred, have you been sleeping the entire day? Arthur has shut down all transport into and out of England, Wales and both Irelands. Even South agreed, for some reason. But... From what I've gathered Scotland is still fully accessible."_

Alfred did not know what to say. How could he? This was the weirdest he had ever heard or seen Arthur behave, and he knew something was definitely up. "I'll see what I can find out, what I can do, but if I can't I'll contact my boss and stuff immediately."

_"Thank you, Alfred, that is all I can ask of you. Matthew also knows already. I will also see what I can do."_

He hung up and stared at his phone. Ivan looked on expectantly, awaiting an answer for Alfred's odd reaction. When none came, he decided to start with a snide comment. "I did not know you had such a violent and morbid streak in you, Alfred." His accent was thicker than usual.

"Arthur's not... okay, I don't think," Alfred remarked flatly, unsure whether to feel worry, anger, concern,...

Ivan sat up. "How so?"

Alfred remembered Francis' words, and immediately dug for a remote for the television in Ivan's room. Once he found it, he turned it on and found the news channel. As expected, it was flashing some Russian text that Alfred translated to _'England, Wales, Ireland shut off all air and seaways'._ Ivan stared, looking a bit dumbfounded. They had just been there, why would-

"So that was why he wanted us out as quickly as possible," the Russian realised. Alfred hadn't even thought of that. Of course. Obviously, it just made so much damn sense. There was something fishy going on, and he decided that he would be the one to... to do something, not quite sure what.

"Yeah, could be it. I'm getting up and moving," Alfred stated before he vanished down the corridor outside Ivan's bedroom. Ivan lay back down on the bed, still too tired to do anything.

Alfred came back a minute later, stomping loudly and flinging the bedroom door open. Ivan cracked an eye open, and saw a fuming American standing in his doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest. Ivan liked the view, though he didn't think it would be a good idea to mention it now.

"Yes, Alfred?" Ivan probed, trying to get an answer out of the silent man.

"You-" He paused. "Do you know what you are?" He was advancing towards Ivan with a dangerous look in his eyes. "You're a fucking liar, and I know that, because you lied to me just to cheat me into sleeping in the same bed as you. You're a lying bastard, and I don't like it one bit-" Ivan was confused, but he found it amusing how Alfred was getting closer, looking so vicious, and unsuspecting of what would _most likely_ happen if he got close to the Russian.

"Whatever are you talking about?" Ivan interrupted innocently.

"You lied about the guest bedroom."

Ivan's eyebrow rose slightly. "Oh, that. Yes, I recall I did lie about that. And I also remember you fell for it."

Alfred then approached the bed much faster, and was about to rant about how "he should never trust a Russian" or something before he was halted. Ivan quickly caught him and pulled him down, and they fought for dominance for a bit before Alfred just ended up pinned under Ivan. He groaned. He didn't like the situation at all. As Ivan grinned wickedly and went for Alfred's neck, he couldn't help but tilt his head back lightly. "Ivan, seriously, I have to..." He broke off for a moment as Ivan found his weak spot. "Okay, well, just - a moment won't hurt I guess, but it's got to be-"

"Alfred." Ivan's face came up to his, his violet eyes boring into his. "You look much better when you don't speak." Alfred narrowed his eyes at him, but as Ivan leaned down to kiss him, he didn't protest much. As much as he denied it, he did have a bit of a guilty pleasure where it came to the Russian.

* * *

If Arthur was smart and had known Francis for a millennium if a day, he would probably be able to predict Francis' next move.

Francis had called Arthur, there was no answer. Obvious reaction, Francis called him again five times. When there was no response, the obvious course of action for the Frenchman was to ask around. And when he found out that no-one knew anything more than he did, then it was only natural that Francis would take it upon himself to find out what the hell was going on, by himself.

And if Arthur wasn't stupid - which Francis knew he was not - he would know to expect a pissed off and worried Frenchman at his doorstep expecting an explanation and a bunch of answers. And Arthur would give them to him, and if not straight out, Francis did not know of a single problem that could not be fixed with a bottle or two of red wine. Or in Arthur's case, Scotch. The Englishman was not easy to get drunk, but to Francis' purpose, being even slightly tipsy was enough.

He was currently standing outside the President's office, as he was currently in a meeting with the Prime Minister. Or could have been some other Minister, Francis was not sure - he had not paid attention, because he had not been invited it did not concern him in the least. However, now, he was getting impatient, and he really needed the keys to the helicopter. He shifted his weight a few more times from one leg to the other, winking at a young brunette who blushed as she walked past him, before sighing and knocking on the door. Without any further invites, he let himself in and strode up to the President, past a surprised Finance Minister. So he was the one taking up so much time. Figures, the minister was extremely picky and demanding when it came to national budget and spending.

"I need the keys to the helicopter," he stated bluntly to his boss. He looked a bit struck before he regained his wits.

"Well - I thought you had your own?" He asked.

"No, because you took them for 'safekeeping'," Francis enunciated, making emphasis on the word 'safekeeping' with his fingers. There may or may not have been an incident with the helicopter once that involved Francis, a bit too much wine, and the Englishman from across the small pond. A certain Dutchman may also have been there, he was not quite sure. "And now, I need them."

"May I ask why?"

Francis snorted. "Sure, you may ask why, but I do not need to answer." At the skeptical look his boss gave him, he continued. "Fine, I need to go to England, and I can't take a plane - airports are closed, as you might have seen from the news already. I promise I will not wreck it, scratch it, or anything of the same type." His boss still seemed unsure. " _Croix de bois, croix de fer, si je mens, je vais en enfer,"_ Francis sighed as he shook his head. Really, whose boss mistrusted them this much, except maybe Alfred's? His boss finally gave in, relenting the keys to him. He smiled. "Thank you, you won't regret this! I promise to even try and improve relations with him," Francis finished, and was out before the president could tell him _not_ to attempt that.

Francis looked over the board filled with buttons and switches. It had been a few years, but piloting a helicopter was like biking, or rollerskating - once you knew how, you didn't forget. Right?

* * *

Kiku drank his cha in silence as he glanced continually at the board announcing the numbers and times and gates of departing flights. The word ' _delayed_ ' kept blinking next to the flight going to Tokyo. He looked around the Chinese airport, where his flight had been diverted due to bad weather. He had thought of visiting Shanghai, but he had no idea when his flight would be allowed to take off. Instead, he ended up sitting in the VIP lounge of the airport, and reading a book he had bought from a bookstore downstairs to pass the time. His phone beeped, and he checked it. It was a message from Yao.

[New Message, 15:43]

_Are you still stuck at Shanghai? If you have to stay the night, feel free to use my house there. You know the address. Just say the word and I'll tell the guard stationed there to expect you. I'm in Beijing, so I can't come myself. I hope the weather gets better. Signed, Yao._

Kiku smiled slightly. The Chinese man was always worrying about him, even despite everything that had happened between them(1). And at the moment, it did look like he might end up spending the night in Shanghai. He sent a message saying he would see what would happen. He couldn't fly anywhere, stormy sea or something else similar. He was just glad his flight was diverted here - there were worse places. But he had an odd feeling that the longer he was to sit and do nothing, being away from his country, the more he would not be coming back to the same country he left. Call it a hunch he had developed for hundreds of years of living with samurai and ninjas, but he knew when something was off. And right now, it felt like one of those moments. He didn't know why, but he had an odd idea that this had something to do with the feeling he had a few days back.

Another half an hour passed before it was announced that the flight was cancelled. He paid his bill, and went to the airline counter of his flight. They apologised for the inconvenience and gave him a ticket for a flight on the following day. He sent a message to Yao, asking (though he knew the answer) whether the offer still held up, and receiving a positive answer, he walked out of the airport with his luggage and went to find a taxi.

He found the place, spent the night, and the weather for Tokyo stated that it would be sunny. The flight took off as it should have, and it took even less time than usual due to favourable winds. Tokyo's airport was just as busy as it always was, with voices of people from every different country drifting everywhere. It was already the third day since Arthur had asked them to leave London, and the same amount of days since he had felt the odd presence.

A while later, he finds himself at his home. He smiles softly, immediately directing himself towards the entrance. He entered, everything looking as normal as it should have been. It was quiet, the trees of the garden were a vibrant red or a glowing orange with tinges of pale green blooming in the midst of the warm colours. Leaves were layered on the ground, forming a blanket of many colours. It was just how it should be. After he had dropped off his luggage and changed from the uncomfortable travel clothes he wore into a more traditional and familiar kimono, he made himself cha and went to the small table in what Alfred called "the barest living room of the planet with a table, a mat and a mini-tree". He closed his eyes for a minute before he paused.

Someone was there.

He listened again, and heard the tatami croak slightly as someone stepped on it. He opened his eyes and out of habit, reached for his katana - that was not there. At the realisation, he stopped. There was cold metal at his throat. That someone spoke, and he was right next to his ear.

_"私は、あなたを待っていました。"_

Kiku neither spoke nor moved, waiting to know more about what was currently going on instead of attempting to face the situation - the person - in complete blindness.

"You really shouldn't be so trusting."

Kiku frowned. He knew that voice, though he could not place it, at all. He remained silent, awaiting for the other to continue and reveal himself.

"Over two thousand years of existence, you haven't learnt anything, have you, _Japan_?" Silence. A step backwards. "Get up and face me."

Kiku obeyed in silence. He was in no place to disagree or disobey. As he turned around, he came face-to-face with the only person he really had wished he would never have to see again. Fierce, burning red eyes glared at him from behind dark bangs, a hard-set scowl on his face with a twisted smirk of satisfaction pulling at the corner of his lips. The black uniform reminded Kiku of days he sometimes wished to forget, the dark colour contrasting greatly with the light background of his house. The katana held by a white-gloved hand didn't quiver nor waver. The tip was steady as it gently rested at Kiku's throat.

"You're going to listen, because there are many things I have to say. And I'm not calm, I am not collected, but I am impatient and rash." Kuro's voice was deep and harsh, and Kiku folded his hands as where he stood. "Do you remember what you did to me, last time we saw? I think you do. I suppose you understand that now, it's our turn - yes, we _all_ are here - to get our taste of revenge. I'm especially good at cooking that dish, and you will get to see it first-hand. You cannot and will not stop us. Sad, little Arthur thinks we're still in Britain, and that we haven't left yet. I saw the news, did you?" Kiku remained silent - he did not know _what_ nor did he _want_ to say anything. "And you won't call for help, but that's because you can't. Your reasons would be because you don't want to hurt anyone, or worry anyone. My reasons are because you won't be able to. In twenty-four hours, _I_ will be in control. You're soon going to feel yourself weaken, because that's exactly what will happen. I do enjoy the fact you gave me about three, four days to get everything set up and ready."

Kuro sighed. "How easy it was to get the Yakuza(2) together and have them cooperate. They're willing to do anything for the right price. And as for the people... when the Army begins to be overtly harsh and unnecessarily violent in its actions - when the police begins to remind them of something out a dystopian novel - they will be easy to coerce. And that is only an idea."

The katana at Kiku's throat slid sideways, so that the edge of the side was now perpendicular to his throat. Kuro's sneering face was dangerously close to his. "And let this be a warning to you. There is nothing you can do to stop this. You, and all the other countries, are bound to fail - and even if, for some reason, it is we who fail in our plan to take over this pathetic, happy, sunny world... Well, you can trust that whatever happens, this place will never be the same."

"It will be the worst thing you have ever seen happen, trust me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Кто вы, там лучше быть чертовски хорошая причина для этого вызова - Whoever you are, there better be a damn good reason for this call
> 
> charmant - charming
> 
> croix de bois, croix de fer, si je mens, je vais en enfer - Literally: cross of wood, cross of iron, if I lie, I'll go to hell; figure of speech, means basically "I promise on my mother's grave"
> 
> 私は、あなたを待っていました - I've been waiting for you
> 
> Notes
> 
> (1) What he's referring to here is mainly the Sino-Japanese Wars (1894-1895 and 1937-1945). They were bloody wars, especially the Second Sino-Japanese war, which involved multiple countries including the USA, Britain, the USSR and resulted in Japanese surrender after killing millions on both sides. The First Sino-Japanese war had resulted in Japanese victory and a great loss of prestige to the Qing Empire as the Chinese lost Taiwan amongst a list of territorial losses surrendered to the Japanese.
> 
> (2) Japanese organised crime.
> 
> A/N: If it was not clear enough within the chapter, I'll explain it again. I know sometimes I waffle and it can be confusing. But so the timeline of a few events was the following.
> 
> \- Scott arrived before the other 2P's, because of the mess-up Oliver mentioned before.
> 
> \- Arthur calls off the World Meeting, while the 2P's take their flights out of London.
> 
> \- Arthur, Dylan and Francis are in Arthur's house, Arthur leaves. Countries begin and have begun feeling the strange feelings wash over them. Alfred and Ivan are together, before Matthew seeks Alfred out and they show up at Arthur's - who is already on the train.
> 
> \- Countries board airplanes and leave. In order for this chapter: Ivan, Francis, Matthew, and Alfred and Kiku on the following day. Kiku's flight is diverted to Shanghai.
> 
> \- Francis is at his house for a day while Alfred flies to Russia. In the evening, Francis calls Arthur, but as he gets no response, he tries again the next morning. After which he calls Alfred.
> 
> \- Francis takes off for England.
> 
> \- Kiku arrives to Japan and that's when Kuro threatens him.
> 
> Hope this cleared it up a bit!


	7. Words As Weapons

_"Le plus lourd fardeau, c'est d'exister sans vivre."  
(The heaviest of burdens is to exist without living.)_

_-Victor Hugo_

"What do you mean I can't-" Pause. "No, I need to reach him now - no, see, you _don't_ understand, I need to reach him now, this is a matter of national - maybe international emergency!" A guttural growl. "No! Don't tell me to call back later, I need to reach him now, it's an emergency! You understand the word emergency? Like when something has to be done immediately? This _is_ one!" A desperate whine before blue eyes widened. "Do you know _who_ I am? You do care! No - no, no don't! Don't hang up, please, I have to - fuck you!" The telephone was thrown against the wall, though not with enough force for it to shatter completely (but the screen did crack pretty badly). Alfred ran a hand through his hair, a mix between a sigh, a groan and a whine escaping from his lips as he paced around the room. He walked in circles until he had calmed down a bit, and then went to pick up his phone.

As many times as he had ever called the FBI, it was wonder that by now they did not know that he actually was someone important - they should have had his number basically on speed dial. Then again, he did not recognise the voice of the girl who had answered the call. He checked his phone still worked, and when he saw the light flash between the cracks, he was satisfied of the state of the mobile and started to direct himself downstairs. Going down the stairs, he began feeling slightly ill, an odd feeling he easily ignored. He had no doubts that when the Director got out of the damn meeting that was occupying him he would call Alfred back immediately. At least he had managed to leave his name, and so he'd be getting a call just about the minute the 'meeting'. He could try the CIA, but then that would just be unneces- actually, he should, because this _was_ both a national and international emergency, so he needed every asset he could get. If the Director of the CIA was 'busy', he'd get his way even if he had to go over everyone's head and directly to the President - but that would be just an unnecessary detour, because that was only a way for him to get an immediate call through to either the Bureau or the Agency.

He then dialled the CIA (which had as contact name Meddling Gits, because Arthur had once gotten his hands on Alfred's phone and 'hacked' into it, as payback for a couple of mishaps that had occurred at a world meeting a few years back, and when the Alfred and the President had both seen the contact name, Alfred was told by his boss to keep it that way - according to him it was accurate), and when he received a similar response to that from the Bureau, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell was going on. Alfred growled as the phone was hung up again, and stomped down the stairs. He directed himself to the kitchen, where he made a beeline for the refrigerator. He dug out a can of coke, and leaving the kitchen he went to slouch on the soft sofa that was in the living room. He placed his phone on the table and turned on the television, attempting to find a channel in English. He did not feel like translating Russian at the moment. After ten minutes of not receiving a single response from either organisation, Alfred called both again, to no avail.

He tried to ignore the growing dizziness he felt, but when it didn't go away, he tried to look for a pain killer. Why the hell did Ivan not have painkillers? Who does not have painkillers? Alfred rummaged through the cupboards of the bathroom, before striding into the kitchen on the hunt for a painkiller. Or maybe, if he managed to find poppies somewhere, he could make his own - although he didn't really know what Ivan would say if he came home and Alfred were high on _poppies_ (1). Alfred snickered at the thought, and as he stumbled upon Ivan's liqueur (vodka, there wasn't so much different types of alcohol and liqueurs as there was vodka) cabinet, he was about to give up the search when his phone rang. He checked the Caller ID before answering.

" _Alfred F. Jones_ speaking," Alfred huffed into the phone, emphasising his name to make it clear who they were speaking to. It should give them enough of an indication that he was basically pissed. It was about time the goddamned FBI answered. "The name should ring bells, or do I have to introduce myself to you lot _again_?" He had not been amused last time there was a horrid mix-up.

"Mr. Jones, I'm really sorry about that, she's still new and-"

"I figured, but I wanna know what the f- what is going on over there? I'm in _Russia_ , and I don't want to take an early flight home. And the fact that I _also_ called the CIA only to find them _also_ too busy to answer me is worrying, which might be something that will cost both you lot of- there will be repercussions if this isn't damn good." Alfred tapped his foot, attempting to keep his vocabulary in check. He was dealing with officials, and he had been given enough lectures about public appearance - from Presidents who knew who he was, Governors who thought he was an insolent teenager, Congressmen who thought him an intern or some other whatnot...

"Ah, they were?" Alfred did not like that tone. "That could be because there is a... uhm... slight situation here." That had Alfred's interest piqued. If this had anything to do with the growing illness he felt, then it was an important situation that was going on there.

"What do you mean, situation? Don't lie, I can _feel_ there's something going on," Alfred stated, at the same time feeling almost like he was about to vomit.

"It seems that a few southern states, meaning New Mexico, Arizona and maybe even California, are having some trouble putting down revolts. They came out of nowhere, started this morning, and we have no idea yet what is really going on. Some people were arrested, and they keep going on about someone who calls themselves Allen Jones and about countries and such - which is extremely worrying and urgent. Personally, I have been in multiple meetings since 6 a.m. and trying to sort out what is going on. Honestly, we'll soon have it under control, and-" He didn't have time to finish his sentence as Alfred cut him off.

"Here's what you're going to do. Get people back there, into those states, organise a man-hunt. The guy, if he really is called Allen Jones, looks sorta like me, except he has a bit darker skin, auburn hair and red eyes, but he wears sunglasses. You're looking - sort of like looking for my evil twin." Which he basically is. Alfred knew he'd never watch another movie about that the same way he used to.

"Who is-"

"Never mind who he is, you organise a man hunt and _hunt him down_!" Alfred snapped. "Oh - and do you have any informat- never mind I'll ask Intelligence. Deal with it as fast as you can, this is a matter of life and death - for the entirety of the United States. Good-bye." Alfred hurriedly hung up before he felt like he was going to pass out. He was starting to doubt a painkiller would do anything. An idea came to him, and he made his way to the kitchen. He opened the cabinet he had previously found, and took out the bottle right at the front. He wasn't getting drunk, just enough to numb the pain. A shot of vodka should do that just fine. As he threw the glass back and swallowed the bitter liquid, he decided to make a few more phone calls. He felt slightly less like hurling.

The CIA still didn't answer. Arthur's phone rang, but no response came. Francis' went directly to voicemail, and Alfred had an inkling that the Frenchman had in fact taken a helicopter and flown to see Arthur. And maybe issue a few select words of his. He wasn't calling Ivan, who was currently hell knows where (at the Federal Assembly, or whatever his Parliament or Senate or Congress was called, if Alfred recalled correctly). He tried Kiku, but for some reason, his friend wasn't answering. Why did it seem like Alfred was the only one who did not have anything to do? Alfred began thinking over the situation, and suddenly, all the pieces began clicking into place.

If Allen was here, then that meant he'd had to come from somewhere, and that somewhere - as far as he'd been told - was in England, and the fact that England had closed down meant that Arthur probably thought that he could keep the 2Ps in England, because they very rarely came alone, and he didn't that at least one - if not more - had managed to spread out, and that meant that none of the other nations knew about it, unless they'd had some sort of pleasant announcement such as this one, and-

"Are you _joking_?!" He yelled at no-one in particular, except himself and perhaps the world.

* * *

"Arthur! Open this door right this minute or I swear I will pay you back right now for every single time you stabbed, shot, disfigured or _otherwise_ injured me in the 1700's! You know I am perfectly capable of doing that, you insolent, ungrateful, tea-sipping, bad-cooking, snobby, tasteless, English-" He was interrupted by a voice behind him, and as soon as he heard it he flipped around to face fiery green eyes.

"By God, Francis, I never would have pegged you for the type of man to firstly almost break into a man's house, secondly to have such a sad vocabulary of insults, considering where you are from, and thirdly to insult the man you so often claim to absolutely _adore,_ " Arthur stated, his arms crossed and a light smirk playing on his lips - though he tried to hide it behind the tired look he had otherwise plastered on his face and that shone dully from his eyes.

"I wouldn't have to practically break in, if you let me in," the Frenchman countered simply. Arthur rolled his eyes and brushed past him, unlocking the door. Before he could shut it, Francis had followed him in.

"I think there are possibly quite a few questions coming from both of us, no?" Arthur asked, and continued when Francis nodded. "Go make yourself comfortable, I'll make tea. I need it, and if you want some it will be in the kitchen."

"Oh, dear me, isn't that almost borderline rude? You invite me to make myself at home, but then tell me to get my own tea! Isn't that basically the English way to say... what was the other expression you so often use? Ah, yes, "piss off", hm?" Arthur just rolled his eyes.

"Pardon my French, how rude of me," Arthur shot sarcastically. "The only reason I told you to make yourself comfortable is because you'd have done so no matter what I said. And I suppose you can consider it a euphemism for that, if you so wish to." Arthur shrugged and disappeared off to the kitchen, and as Francis was in the house and very unwilling to have it burn down around himself, he followed the island nation in there. Arthur paid him no attention, searching for the kettle.

"Arthur, I did come here on actual business, you do know that?" Francis asked. Arthur glanced at him in apparent disbelief, though by now Francis would be damned if he did not know that was the look Arthur gave to divert the attention off of himself and and to discredit the claims.

"Honestly, Francis, I didn't know you had 'actual business' in you. Do tell what is worrying your pretty little mind," Arthur said nonchalantly. Arthur had lived for thousands of years. He knew every trick in the book to make his emotions seem less, and in fact, every other trick in the book anyway. But Francis knew Arthur's book just as well.

"I want to know what is going on. Where were you? Why didn't you answer my phone? Why did I have to hear it from the news that you were closing your airports and ports and any way in and out of England, Wales, and even _both_ Irelands? What about Scotland, is Allistair getting independence?" Francis shot.

Anyone else would have missed it. The small flinch, the glance, the blink, anyone else would have missed them or dismissed them. Anyone else but Francis.

They could push each other's buttons until they were digging into their skins, they could hurt each other until they were barely clinging to the edge of sanity before they would collapse in on themselves. They could easily cause each other so much pain in one sentence, with a well-placed word, a silver-lined threat, a glare, an insult. But they could also help each other out of those depths, away from that edge, back up from that hell-deep canyon and back down from an insurmountable mountain. Though Arthur refused to admit it, Francis and he knew each other more than anyone else did on the planet, really. They knew each other better than lovers, hated each other more than nemeses, helped each other more than the best of friends, fought like a married couple and mortal enemies. Perhaps that was why their relationship was so complicated.

But Francis had seen the flinch. He remained silent as Arthur scoffed at his ridiculous words. "Honestly, I was busy with my government, there was an issue of some sort of possible contamination of foodstuffs. I don't know how far it has reached, so I decided to play safe. I asked my brothers and Erin to follow my advice, but Allistair, the stubborn arse as he is, remained locked up on his own and refused to budge."

Francis collected the keywords from those sentences - it was what Arthur did: take the truth, pick out the ideas, twist the words with new words, unrelated and then issue it. _Busy. Contamination. Don't know how far it has reached. Locked up._

"I'm not quite sure that is what it is about." Francis circled Arthur to draw him away from the kettle. "What kind of contamination are we talking about? Why do you not know its extent? Would it not be safer to tell the world the nature of the risk? And why would Allistair refuse to cooperate on such a matter of people's health? Even he isn't that stupid, I honestly don't think any nation is."

Arthur scoffed. "I wouldn't put it past Alfred-"

"Who is probably at the moment making a million calls trying to reach you and find something out, all the while being worried out of his young mind for _you_. He still cares, you know that." Francis played one of his best cards - Alfred. Alfred, who was still the youngest superpower ever, who was still at the top of the world, who shouldn't have these kinds of issues - he was physically twenty, not even legally allowed to drink in his country. And Francis knew that Arthur would react to that.

As Arthur was about to retort something, Francis' phone rang. Both stopped for a moment before Francis before he realised it was indeed his phone. He picked up, both surprised and not very much so that it was Alfred ringing.

_"Francis! Thank you, Francis, you answered, awesome - wait no, not awesome, this is not awesome, not cool at all - what I have to say - ugh, fuck, I'm not getting anywhere. Just a sec-"_ There was some scrambling, and Francis could not get a word in between. _"Okay-"_

"Alfred, could I put you on speaker?" Francis said, staring Arthur dead in the eye. When Alfred stammered his agreement, he allowed Alfred to go on. The voice was riddled with static, but it was still audible.

_"Francis, I figured it out. I made a few calls around, and I'm pretty sure I know what's going on."_ Alfred sounded much calmer and more composed and serious than Francis had seen him for a long time. Arthur was looking at Francis with an almost stricken look, his eyebrows high and eyes wide. _"It's - say, you still haven't seen Arthur, have you?"_ Both could hear the 'please say yes' behind the words.

"Alfred, I am here, don't worry about me, you were s-" Arthur started, but was cut right off.

_"Arthur! Oh praise the Lord, you're okay!"_ There was a pause. _"Are you fucking stupid?"_ Both men present were shocked by this - never had they heard such words come from Alfred, aimed at his former caretaker. _"Why did you think it was some sorta brilliant idea to keep it from everyone that there just might be some freakin' Second Players running around here? Like I know you're not stupid, so what the fuck, Arthur?"_ Alfred sounded downright pissed, and Arthur made a mental note not to cross the American for some time. _"Guess how I found out? I had to call the CIA and the FBI only to find them dealing with a goddamn uprising in California - though I had to have guessed something was wrong from the fact that I felt like puking the entire day!"_ Arthur was unsure of what to say. He looked at Francis, who looked shocked, surprised, annoyed, angry, and apparently a lot of other stuff.

"Alfred, we'll get back to you when we know some more, alright?" Francis said calmly, though Arthur could hear the icicles in the voice. It had been a very long time since that voice had been directed at him.

_"Yeah, well, try not to keep some more stuff like that from me, I'm seriously not that idiotic."_ Alfred hung up, and the silence in Arthur's house was palpable.

"Arthur, for lack of better words, what the hell?" Francis stared at him. Arthur squared his shoulders. It would just have to be done the old-fashioned way, then.

"I am not, _in fact,_ stupid. See, it was a gamble I made. You like gambling, you should know. You either lose or you win. And here, the odds were pointing in favour of winning, for me. The weather was absolutely dreadful the day that I found my attic absolutely trashed. A great number of planes were cancelled that day. The next day, I decided my course of action would be to get you the hell out of my country, and lock it up. I was counting on how many days it would get them to forge the appropriate paperwork and everything else, and the only problem that remained was the fact that it always takes you all such a long time to get in or out of somewhere!" Arthur shot at Francis.

"See, what you don't realise, but I do - because _I like to gamble_ \- is that sometimes, there is no gamble to be made. This time was one of those times. You should have told us, not tried to deal with it yourself. You know where that always leads! Every single novel you've read should have taught you that! You're a nation!"

"Because of which I have to think of the welfare of the entire world - I can't have the whole world on bloody red alert and DEFCON 2 because of a damned national emergency! Honestly," Arthur threw his arms up into the air in exasperation, "once I realised that they were most - if not all - out of the country by now, what would you think I have done? Let it slide and waited until you each find out on your own? I've done everything I can for now! I've closed the borders, they-"

"They're gone!" Arthur looked as if he'd been hoping for Francis _not_ to say that. "We wouldn't have the need to go on red alert if we'd been given a warning!" Both men were now shouting, staring each other dead and cold in the eye.

"You bloody idiot! Do you know what would have happened then? If I had announced that Second Players are roaming around, I don't know where and I don't know what for? Alfred would have gone on an international-scale manhunt for a group of people we don't know much about. Ivan would have locked up. Us, the EU, would have emergency meeting after meeting after meeting, and get nothing done, however many times Ludwig shouts at us! Kiku would retreat to Japan, Yao would never trust anyone any more. Matthew - think of what he'd have done, he'd have joined Alfred and so many others, or followed Russia's or China's example, and what the hell kind of trouble would the world be in then? It would be absolute chaos, because of a bit of mismanagement from my part!"

"Arthur, you're too cynical for your own good." Francis ran a hand on his face. "You're blowing it way out of the scope of reality. We don't overreact that easily, we know when to stop -"

"Do we?" Arthur snapped. "The problem is, we don't know when to stop, because we are partly human, and that's our flaw. Francis, I thought this through, I knew what I was doing!"

"So you thought, but you were wrong! Arthur, you need to trust some of us - not necessarily all of us, all the time, every day, but some of us, on occasion, to do the damn right decision!"

"How would you know any better than I do what the right decision is?" Francis sighed in exasperation, the conversation not going anywhere - it was so typical for the two of them. However much they tried, it was impossible for them to just try and work anything out properly - too many hundreds of years of war, adding up to give a grand total that exceeded thousands of lives' worth. And it was hard to get past that. "Francis, if the only reason you came here was to chew me out for-"

"I came here because I was-" Francis cut himself off before he said something he'd regret - he wasn't sure really what he was about to go on to say, but that was why he didn't continue. "Look, just, you have to warn the other nations. They don't know what's going on, and-"

"I know, I know, I will." Arthur sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I will fix it." He turned to look outside the window, into the well-kept garden outside his house. The silence was heavy between them, a thread that could snap at the lightest disturbance. He then finished softly, "I just don't know how." His voice was strained. He turned to look at the Frenchman. After a moment's pause, he went towards the radio that was on the kitchen counter, turning it on to have something fill what would otherwise have been a hollow silence. A dead beat edged its way through, gnawing at the silence with a melody tinted with emptiness. Arthur kept glancing at Francis, who instead was switching between looking at Arthur and through the window. Arthur took in a breath, but seemed to change his mind about saying something.

Francis sighed. "Arthur-"

"You know, maybe it would be best if you went home, I think," Arthur said softly. He wasn't looking at Francis, but continued. "You should probably go back, make sure that Francois doesn't-"

"Arthur, shut up." Francis tried his hardest not to start raising his tone again. "I'm not going back today - he's not going to do anything today. And honestly, I could you use a safe haven right now." He glanced pointedly at the Englishman, who made sure to avoid the piercing blue eyes.

Arthur huffed in defeat, knowing that there was no way he could deter the Frenchman from what he wanted. He turned to the kettle, abandoning the thought of tea. Instead, he went to another cabinet, and pulled out two small, square glasses of crystal, the intricate relief details on them glinting in the afternoon light. He placed them on the counter, and reached back in to pull out a bottle of Scotch. Pouring them each a glass, he handed one to Francis, who accepted it wordlessly. In silent agreement, both walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where they collapsed, both ungraceful in manner, into armchair and sofa. "Certainly," Arthur started, "you can stay at your heart's desire. You know the ground rules."

Francis scoffed. "You've repeated them five times every single time I come around here, I am pretty sure I could list them back to front with the exact words you give each time." They then were silent for a while, before Francis felt his earlier good humour return. "Although, because you _have_ been repeating those rules for about a century, I daresay they are growing old and outdated." He turned a mischievous look to Arthur who looked just about torn between glaring at him and cussing him out. "I think it's time to lay down some new rules, and I have a few contributions of my own." He stood, walking to the mantelpiece that supported a light pile of books, a few photographs, and some random decorations. He pretended to look at them intently while he waited for a reaction.

"Francis, I think the rules _I_ make are perfectly fine in _my_ house, or did I perhaps miss the episode where you suddenly bought this lovely house?" Sarcasm dripping off his voice, he rolled his eyes at the Frenchman's antics. Only he would be able to think of such things in a such a time.

_Although..._ His mind countered. _There is something to gain from a distraction - releasing tension, clearing the mind..._ He contemplated his options, and allowed Francis to go further with the less-ridiculous idea. God knew that they had slept together enough times not to know each other by heart already. Francis looked amusedly at Arthur, as he saw the contemplating look on the island nation's face.

"Well, Arthur, it looks like I've laid down a few new rules, _non_?" Francis chuckled, as he approached the Englishman, swallowing the rest of the alcohol in his hand before placing the glass carefully on the table. He took also Arthur's empty glass, doing the same, and moving slowly towards the other. Arthur instead stood, placing a hand on his chest.

"I know a much better place to do this in." His breath caressed Francis' cheek. His smirk was caught by wandering blue eyes. "I'll give you a hint, it's upstairs, and it has a door that locks, and a very soft, comfortable mattress. It's not the guest bedroom." He had a look of pure mischief in his eyes.

Francis hummed softly. "I like that idea very much."

Arthur laughed softly. "Only you'd be able to lure me into this trap in such a time, wouldn't you?"

Neither could, or ever would, call it love - in the sense of the pure feeling, the absolute devotion and powerlessness, the weak-in-the-knees adoration, the overtaking and absolute emotion. There were just too many differences, too much enmity coursing between them, separating them like a canyon at the bottom of which were all their memories and experiences, running in a frothing, torrential river. But both knew that if there was anyone they trusted with their life, it was the man on the opposite ledge of the canyon. And they would go to the edges of the world for the other - but no, both would deny it being love.

* * *

Honestly, he'd rarely seen anything more beautiful than what he was staring at right that moment - the _what_ being an absolutely gigantic pile of pancakes he had managed to make, having woken up extremely early in the morning to manage it. Matthew grinned from ear to ear - and there was no Alfred in sight to wolf it down before he managed to touch the mountain.

That had happened once before, and let's say it had not ended well - on Alfred's part. He was permanently traumatised of hockey sticks, hockey pucks, and was extremely close to being permanently scarred about pancakes. The relations of the two countries had been tense for a while, with Alfred refusing to go anywhere near his brother. Matthew? He'd had the time of his life in meetings without his brother - for once, he was recognised - and making pancakes. He sighed at the happy memories. Not that he didn't love his brother - it just, his brother was _Alfred._

He picked up a knife and a fork, setting to work - right when his _goddamned phone decided to start ringing._ Matthew stared at it disbelievingly, glaring at it in the hopes of it being scared enough to shut the heck up. Because he swore by every single god that whoever had called him would be dead the next time they tried to call him like this. He didn't move, waiting until the call went to voicemail - no message came. Satisfied about not having to deal with people right now, he picked up a maple syrup-soaked pancake (or rather, some maple syrup with pancake dissolved into it, basically) and set it on a plate, and -

It was ringing. Again. Matthew ignored it. Again.

This process was repeated five times, the phone ringing five times and Matthew ignoring it five times and eating six pancakes in that while. By the sixth call, he had come to the conclusion that whoever was calling was desperate enough to remember who he was, and he could utter some very well-chosen threats at the call-

_Alfred._ His brother, whom he found out yesterday, had flown to Russia, was calling him. Why hadn't he guessed?

Matthew took the phone, answering it but putting it on speaker so he could eat his pancakes in peace.

_"Oh thank the Lord you're alive oh my God Matthew don't you ever fucking scare me like that again! I swear I will-"_

"-kill you if this isn't good enough to waste my time on, hoser," Matthew finished the sentence, though it was from his point of view, obviously. "Alfred, what the hell?" He'd very often heard his brother panicking over nothing, or being over-excited, or whatever, but this had something... off.

_"Did you hear what happened to England?"_ Matthew mumbled a positive answer. _"I just thought - listen, get your country on alert, 'cause guess what that weird feeling we both felt was? Guess! Wanna take a fucking guess? No? I-"_

"Get to the damn point!" Matthew fired.

_"Second Players."_ Alfred sounded nervous, maybe? Matthew couldn't place his finger on what it was Alfred seemed to sound like at the moment. _"They're here, in our world, in our dimension, and I haven't seen any of them yet, but I guess Arthur has, and Kiku's not answering, so I'm scared something's happened to him, and that bastard - Allen - is causing me fucking headaches in the west, and it's just-"_

"Alfred, full stops were invented for a reason - slow the fuck down!" Matthew rolled his eyes, but couldn't put his heart fully into it with the news he'd just received. "What do you mean-"

_"Matt, we're twins, you know what I mean better than I do - Matthieu is here, and I'm gonna take a wild guess, but he'll soon cause a bit of a mess if you don't hurry up and do something! I'm taking the first plane to the States, as soon as I manage to tell Ivan who's gone hell knows where - but please, just don't let him hurt you, I'll be there in a day! Well, not, like, there there, but there -"_ Alfred was rambling.

"Alfred, I get it, I get it," the Canadian said reassuringly, attempted to soothe both himself and his brother at the same time. What was he to do now? "Just... help yourself first, then look around - don't do anything foolish, get home, get safe."

_"Matthew, what the-"_

"I'm not going to do anything stupid, Alfred, I'm going to sort myself out." Matthew's mind was running at a million miles an hour. "Do the same, alright?"

_"... Yeah. Okay, yeah, I will."_ Alfred still didn't hang up, but after a longer pause, he finished. _"See ya soon."_ And he hung up. There hung in the air that dread, that cold, dripping iciness - a stalactite that hung like a Damocles' sword over them, that threat, that danger, that sense of _not alright_. Matthew quickly put the rest of the pancakes into the refrigerator, counting on getting back to them later. When he'd sorted out everything else - he went through his speed dial, calling and checking and reassuring and counting and worrying and issuing information. He needed, somehow, to find Matthieu. That would prove a hell of a task in itself.

He tried to calm himself, he did, but he worried too much - for himself, for his people, for his brother, for every other country and every citizen in the world, what woudl they all do? What could they all do?

* * *

Ivan shifted in his seat, getting more and more uncomfortable. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but he couldn't check it - he wasn't Alfred, who he was sure would without a doubt check his phone before anything else. Wherever he was. But Ivan was currently at the State Duma, and he couldn't very well stop listening because someone had gone absolutely insane with their phone. He had quite a good feeling who that person was.

But he wondered what could have suddenly gone so bad that Alfred was suddenly texting him ten times a minute, as they had woken up this morning and Alfred made it clear that he was feeling slightly ill, so he wouldn't be stepping foot outside the house. Unless Alfred needed the hospital, he had few to no reasons whatsoever to be desperate for Ivan.

Before he knew it though, a break was called to the address, and as politicians stood from their seats, Ivan immediately whipped out his phone. He wasn't surprised to see that the messages were growing shorter and more panicked by the second. He read the one-sided conversation, that had started ten minutes ago.

_[American Idiot,_ _Today, 14:36]_

_\- Ivan if you're reading this please answer I need to speak to you its really urgent answer when you can_

_\- Ivan seriously I know you keep your phone in your pocket and I know you know I messaged you answer me_

_\- Damn it Ivan this is rly important_

_\- Hey answer me I nd 2 spek 2 u_

_\- NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME_

_\- Ffs you rude motherfckin red commie bastard answer me or ill take a fckin sickle and hammer and smash ur bitchass face in and start another goddamn cold war - youll be dead by the end of this 1 youll send urself to siberia to cool off bc it wont be a COLD WAR ITLL BE SO HOT ITLL BURN UR LOUSY ASS THE COLOR OF BLOOD_

Ivan had to admit, that one was creative in terms of images and language. In a sense.

_\- IVAAAAAAAAAAAN!_

And his phone kept buzzing as more and more messages arrived into his phone, like fire from a machine gun. It was worrying the speed with which Alfred could type a message. He responded as soon as he got a word in between Alfred's incessant bombarding.

_\- Yes, Alfred, I was in a meeting, what is wrong? Do you need the hospital? If you are just missing me, please don't bother me for another two hours._

_\- Ivan!_

The Russian was only slightly confused about that enthusiastic and surprised response. ' _Slightly_ ' being the keyword here.

_-_ _да?_

_\- The fck man u had me worried 2 death dont do that im 4 real_

_\- Alfred, you're being confusing, get to the point - what is wrong?_

_\- Lot of stuff: Art's okay, but bc hes stupid i need to go back to the usa as fast as cos theres shit goin down there and apparently the second players are here and so basically were fucked and idk but kikus not answering and ive had too much shock for one day get back here quick i nd 2 pack and call my president and i g2 leave asap_

Ivan's surprise grew with every word he was reading. The sudden departure, the news about Arthur, the news about the Second Players (that especially)... He stood for a moment, trying to process the information. How the hell...? He did some flash-thinking, responding quickly.

_\- Give me fifteen minutes, I'll be there as soon as I can._

He turned to find his President, who was on his way to the other side of the room. Catching up, Ivan quickly shot him a half-arsed excuse and left the building in record time. He found his car parked slightly away, and he was pretty sure he broke about every single law there was concerning traffic. Not that he'd get caught or arrested - well, he had once or twice, but those were extremely short-lived stays in the prison. He pulled up at his house, at the same time nearly crashing into the tree growing right outside the heavy-security gate. He opened the door only to find a silent house - no, that crashing noise was definitely his nightstand, and the lamp, and the books. And that shout was most likely Alfred. He hurried up the stairs, discarding his suit jacket onto the railing. Sure enough, he found Alfred cursing out the table that had toppled over (and now sported a missing leg).

"Alfred, I would much appreciate it if you did not demolish my house, however much you may not like it," Ivan stated as he picked the objects off the floor and placed them on the bed - or tried to, except Alfred had invaded it with his suitcase.

"Dude, seriously, do you really think that's my biggest concern at the moment? Apparently, Allen's fucking rioting in California, and elsewhere, and I need to get back as soon as possible - uhm, after I've called my boss, which I kinda still need to do... Honestly, if I were you, I'd be on the lookout for what's-his-face, Vladimir or Dmitri or Alexander or whatever his name is." Alfred paused for a moment. "I don't even know if I've ever met him, but I'll just keep it that way." His phone began ringing. Alfred felt he was getting extremely glued to his phone, at the moment. It was the FBI, and his eyes widened at what he was told.

Ivan saw this, and furrowed his brows. He honestly hoped the situation was not worsening at this pace, a speed much faster than any of them could deal with, than any of them were prepared for. How had they managed to slip past their noses? And was it really that easy to turn the people against their nation? Really? Alfred's call ended, and he stared at his phone blankly for a minute. Then he looked at Ivan with a face set with determination.

"We got to make this quick, I have to be on a plane _by tonight._ " Alfred immediately set to work.

"What happened?" Ivan questioned.

Alfred kept moving around, doing things at a speed Ivan had rarely seen him do anything. "He managed to seize California. I don't get it, I seriously don't - and I swear to God if he touches Callie I'm going to smash his face in personally, he better not touch a hair on her head-"

"Callie?"

"Uh, yeah, California," Alfred said. Ivan had forgotten Alfred's states had representatives.

"Is she-"

"No, I know she's alive, for the moment, maybe shaken up or - no, she's alive, otherwise I'd have a nasty wound somewhere. I'd know, I had a scar from 1814, it's still there, and the same would happen... I just need to get back home before it spreads." Alfred paused. "I swear to God, they're like a virus, but it's just worse, because we don't have anything to fight them with - we don't know where they are, what they're doing." He swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "She's alive, they're alive, they're fine. They have to be."

* * *

" _C_ _he cazzo vuoi , bastardo_?" Lovino shot as the door opened. He had already told Feliciano to get the damn pasta if he wanted it so bad - it was definitely no-one else's fault except his own that there was none left in the house anymore. Frankly, the grumpy Italian couldn't care less; he had felt a bit - actually, he now felt a lot so - faint, so he had sat down and decided to read - and now he was reading, and for once he liked the book, so he expected to be left in peace.

"Really, that's the best greeting you can give me? Honestly, I wasn't expecting a welcoming committee, but that's just rude," a foreign voice snapped from behind him. Lovino froze for a second. He didn't like the sound, the tone or the attitude of the voice, especially because it was _not_ Feliciano's voice. It was foreign, but the accent was too familiar for his liking. Problem was, he didn't know whose it was. He scrambled off the couch and turned to face the last person he'd expected to see. Or actually, two people as another person entered the room with a scowl on his face. He didn't know what to do, but right now, he could only think that sometimes Europe needed to cut some slack on gun regulations. He'd feel much safer if he had one now. Flavio sighed. "And now you're silent? God, this is just embarrassingly awkward, isn't it?"

"Shut your trap, _idiota_ ," Luciano growled. He was handling a kitchen knife he had clearly picked up from the house's kitchen, even despite the fact that he seemed to have a rather extensive arsenal at his belt. All three Italians in the room looked at the gleaming edge of the weapon with different looks on their faces.

"The-What the fuck do you two bastards want?" Lovino gained his wits back, his head spinning slightly, and decided to use the most effective defence mechanism he had at hand - language. It could buy him some time, until he could get the other two distracted enough to find an escape route and maybe pick up something useful, sharp or wounding on the way.

"See, that kind of attitude isn't going to get you anywhere! We, after all, are your guests, and you should treat us with more respect," Flavio said offhandedly, as if it was a matter of fact and not a blatant invention of theirs. Lovino immediately reacted to that, however.

"Fucking hell - the problem is, you aren't _guests_ \- the fact that you are in _my_ house does not make you _my_ guests. You are _uninvited_ , _breaking_ and _entering_ , _rudely_ making an appearance where _neither_ of you is _desired_ \- you are intruders and criminals, and should go back to where you came from, or somewhere _else_ away from me and my damn house!" Lovino snarled. Though his brain was working at a million miles a second, he didn't really think of what he said - otherwise he would have perhaps considered twice insulting the ones who had the weapons. But he did notice how Luciano's face lit up at that comment. It was as if it was a cue for him to say something threatening, or do something sadistic and completely insane.

Which it actually turned out to be.

"Oh, really? Where should we go? I'd love to have some suggestions from you, but _I_ have a few ideas of my own." He grinned, a grin that only spoke of trouble and problems for Lovino. "There's a few places both Flavio and I could go, do something useful. But hey, we're here only to rub it in your face anyway," he announced gleefully. "We could currently be in - or hey, we should actually show you where we could be right now, shouldn't we?" Luciano nodded to Flavio, who strode carelessly towards the coffee table in the centre of the living room. Lovino sent a round of profanities flying towards the two and attempted to stop the other Italian, but he was shoved down to sit on the couch with a knife across his throat. He gulped inconspicuously, and decided to do the smart thing and shut up. They hadn't killed him, so it couldn't be too bad. Yet. Flavio picked up the remote and pointed it to the TV, flicking it on. He zapped between a bunch of channels, clearly looking for something. He stopped on Rai 1. Lovino glanced at the two, unsure of what exactly was going on, when the knife was pressed closer to his throat and Luciano hissed, "look at it!"

He turned to the screen, at first the situation not very clear. It seemed something chaotic was happening, and at the same moment the odd feeling of faintness he had felt was explained by the news on the screen. The images were constantly switching to two different places, where two separate mobs of people were gathered clearly outside the Palazzo Madama and the Palazzo Montecitorio (2). He could see them protesting and demonstrating, against what, he wasn't too sure. Of course, for the last two years or so, the protests had been quite common, in a constant, bothersome but unaffecting way - so far, they had been mainly minor and easily and peacefully broken up. But something had the crowds extremely riled up now, and why, Lovino had no clue. Something told him it had to do with the two people who were currently smiling down at him, one more dangerously than the other.

"Lovi," Luciano started in an overly sweet voice. "Do you know how easy it is to get a crowd of people to support a cause, especially in a time of troubles? The internet also made that very simple. I mean, if you have _connections_ like we do, then that's just a piece of cake. And I have to ask you... Do you have any idea what would happen if those crowds, at the moment looking almost peaceful," that just scared Lovino - there was nothing peaceful about a rather large group of shouting and borderline violent people gathered near the Parliament, "now began to actually do something?" Lovino's eyes widened. He didn't have too clear an idea, but he didn't really want to have one either. "Flavio here, as airheaded as he can be, is sometimes such a brilliant orator... It's a pity you haven't heard some of the speeches and messages he's given on radios and television, as an almost anonymous, 'average Joe'. That's what got them riled up. And when I managed to get the mafia on our side... This was just too simple."

In the blink of an eye, Luciano withdrew the knife from Lovino's throat and drove it deep into his leg. Lovino tried to dodge, but screamed in pain once he found himself unable to push or pull into any direction.

" _Bastardo,_ " Luciano growled, and Lovino forced his eyes to open despite the pain to glare at the ruby eyes in front of his. "Look at that blood, see it dripping down, see your _country_ running out. And guess what? Every single blow given by your people to the government, every single post office and public transport and police they seize is another disloyal citizen you have, another loyal citizen _we_ have. And do you know what that means? Means we're getting stronger," Luciano giggled darkly. "Honestly, did you have any clue how bad people had it? The recession is still going on, and last year's slump just made it all worse. That's pathetic, you can't even keep a hold of your world."

Luciano withdrew the knife from Lovino's leg, who gasped at the deep pain gushing from his wound. He managed to push it away, push away the fear he felt at losing his country - his fear for his brother, and his fear for the rest of the world; what was happening to them? He tried to shift, but only a strained shout made its way from his throat as his eyes squeezed shut from the stabbing feeling. The knife was gone, but it still was as if it were buried in his leg. What had they let slip away from them, that it had come to this? He managed to catch a glimpse of the blood pooling on the floor - a main artery. What had they ignored, dismissed, or simply missed? Had they lost their people? Had they missed their anger, disgruntlement? Or had they just been here for too long to notice? _Where was Feliciano_?

As if hearing his thoughts - or had Lovino voiced them? - Luciano laughed. "Don't worry, little Feli's going to be fine. In fact," he laughed. "He'll be joining you as soon as we find him."

He focused again on the living room, and attempting to lunge at Luciano, he was driven back into the couch, and before he could do anything else - _"Sleep tight!"_ \- a blow came to his neck - the world blacked out from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Che cazzo vuoi , bastardo - What the fuck do you want, bastard
> 
> Notes
> 
> (1) Poppies can be used to make poppy seed tea, which is apparently a natural painkiller and can be made at home. However, poppies - especially Papaver somniferum (or opium poppy) also produce opium as a natural defence mechanism against predators, and so the opium poppy is the source of all opiates. Morphine is the main chemical found in the varieties of opium poppy plant cultivated in most producing countries. So, while it's an effective painkiller that can be made at home, my best bet is that Alfred would not use it for uses that are considered completely legal. After all, the 60s and 70s were a special timeframe in Alfred's books. I got all this information from Wikipedia, though, I'm not a botanist in any way, shape or form.
> 
> (2) Palazzo Madama is the seat of the Italian Senate, and Palazzo Montecitorio is the seat of the Chamber of Deputies. I did a lot of research on this (do you know how hard it is to find out where the government of a country works? Because the answer is hella) and from what I gathered the Senate is the main body of the government, so that would be where it would hurt if something happened. The Chamber of Deputies is the other House of Parliament basically (I think) and so I decided to include that too to be on the safe side. If I'm wrong, I'd love to know that.


	8. Bleed It Out

_"Man has lost the capacity to foresee and forestall._   
_He will end by destroying the Earth."_   
_-Albert Schweitzer_

"Tino? _Var är_ -" A thick Swedish voice made its way through the house that seemed devoid of life.

"In the attic!" Came a muffled response. Berwald shortly wondered what his 'wife' could be doing up there, but made his way up to find the Finn. It had been a while since Tino had last gone up there, and Tino said he rarely needed to go up there in any case. It was mostly memories and things from the past. He found the stairs pulled down and the trapdoor that led to the attic open, made his way up, managing not to hit his head on the ceiling (this time). Tino was currently going through one of the cupboards, having half-climbed into it.

"What are you-"

"Give me a second, I found it, just need to get it - aha!" Tino began retreating from the cupboard, being extremely close to hitting his head against the door-frame. At the same time, he pulled out a - a rifle? Berwald looked at his husband, at the same time worried, slightly scared, and extremely confused. It wasn't even hunting season! He sent a questioning look to the happy-looking Finn, who was smiling as if what he'd just found was a pack of sweets and not the rifle he had basically _slept with_ for fifty years, when he was paranoid about Russia coming knocking at his front door any day. Those had been an extremely uncomfortable fifty years for the Swede, who had on more than one occasion seen how good a shot the man was (Switzerland had nothing on him) and how jumpy he sometimes got. When he got no answer, he decided to ask it himself.

"What are you doing with that?" Some of his vowels dropped out by the thick accent he had, but Tino understood him easily.

"Oh, this? Just getting ready," he stated, offering no further explanation - until he decided to continue. "I don't know _who_ it is, but I've got a feeling someone's here. And I know that I don't like that someone. That I know." Berwald raised an eyebrow. Tino liked most people.

"Is it Iv-?"

Tino shook his head as he began checking the weapon from different angles, and pointed it at the wall. "Not _Russia,_ no." The Finn still had a grudge against his Eastern neighbour, and it wasn't as if Ivan held Tino in any great appreciation. The ice hockey matches Berwald had witnessed told him enough, especially on the days when the Finn lost a match and sulked about for days. "But I've got a feeling, and I'll trust it this time, just like the other times." As he switched his aim, the barrel momentarily flicked over Berwald, who couldn't stop himself from backing away slightly, just a step. "I'm just going to have this at the ready, because I have a bad feeling about this. _Ja kuka helvetissä se onki saa tervetuliaiset suomalaisittain._ "

Though Berwald had never tried to learn the language, he had an inkling of what that meant - and it didn't promise any good to whoever had pissed off Tino. The Swede knew he himself was intimidating, more often than not. But he also knew that give Tino a weapon, a hockey stick and a puck, or take away his coffee (1), it was likely that even Natalya would think twice of crossing the smaller nation. Berwald wondered, in all honesty, whether Tino had taken one too many cups today, actually, because he didn't look intoxicated, but his state of mind was still worrying. It was one in the afternoon on a Thursday anyway. Tino had noticed the looks he was given by his husband, and smiled gently.

"Don't worry, _jag vill inte gör något dumt_ ," Tino reassured, but the pronunciation still made Berwald cringe inwardly. Finnish Swedish was just unique - not in a good way. Tino flung the strap of the rifle over his shoulder, and swung the weapon back easily. He began making his way downstairs, Berwald following him.

They arrived downstairs, and Tino placed the weapon (that Berwald suspected was actually still loaded) against a wall before he made his way into the kitchen. Berwald went to make himself some coffee, only to find that the kettle still was half-full. He turned to Tino, blowing on the hot drink as he did so. "Who then do you think it is?"

Tino shrugged as he began munching on a pastry that had been on the plate of fresh cinnamon rolls that was on the table. "I don't know, I've just got this feeling. Last time I had this same feeling... " He paused, a slight frown forming on his soft features. "I might be wrong, but last time I had this feeling, it wasn't happy times that came after it." Tino shrugged again, and then he seemed to remember something. "Oh! Matthias said he had to cancel his visit, something came up." Berwald had to stop himself from muttering a 'thank God'. He didn't want to deal with the Dane in addition to an apparently paranoid Tino. "So hey, we have the evening to ours-" He was cut off by his phone ringing from the living room.

He went to get it, and as he came back his expression was a much more annoyed one. Tino answered, putting on a dangerously polite tone. "Hello, _Venäjä_ , how can I help?" Berwald could hear the undertone behind the otherwise polite and sweet voice, and he knew that this had to be something important. Ivan avoided calling Tino, and vice versa. There was a moment of silence, and Tino furrowed his brows as each second passed. "Alright, well, thanks, I suppose. Tell Alfred I said hi." He hung up. He placed his phone onto the table and picked the rifle up from where it was resting. As he began practicing his aim, checking the gun's ammunition and everything else, he answered the question that Berwald had not yet asked from confusion at the situation. "I was right, earlier, about my feeling. Russia just told me the Second Players are here," Tino clarified. He put the rifle down, went to the kitchen cupboard under the sink that contained cleaning supplies, and - there was _another_ gun _there_? At least this was an air rifle. Now, Berwald was worried about where else Tino kept weapons. He thought there were strict laws about this! Though honestly he would not be surprised if Tino had managed to get himself a permit for any and every single type of weapon on this planet.

That gun had a silencer, and Tino aimed it through the kitchen doorway, through the hallway, into the living room and at a beer can that had been left there on top of the mantelpiece. The shot went clean in through the centre of the logo. Tino shrugged. "I've still got it." Berwald did not want to know when the last time Tino had trained was. And he had a feeling Tino's weapons (knives, guns, alcohol even when he got his hands on it) would not be collecting dust for much longer. And if what Ivan had told Tino was true, then he also had a feeling that he'd have to find his.

 _Maybe sooner than later,_ he thought as Tino went to fling his front door open, having passingly placed the weapon back against the wall.

"I'm going to see my boss, stay here, don't open the door if that _saatanan kommari_ (2) comes knocking. Or if you do, make sure to give him a black eye."

* * *

The light from the inside formed golden specks on the blackening tiles of the courtyard of the _siheyuan_. The trees above him cast tall shadows, draping the sky with darkening leaves as the sun began dipping below the horizon. The moon was hidden behind the curtain, the stars only yet dotting the evening sky here and there as wisps of clouds circled above the trees. Yao leaned on the doorway of the courtyard, the light from the inside behind him illuminating the trees and the tiles and the red walls around the garden. He tapped his foot, his nervousness rising with every passing minute.

He didn't really know what he could do, but what he had heard or seen - or rather, not heard - was enough to allow a sense of dread to spread through him. How many ties had he called? How many voice messages had he left? How many texts? He'd lost count after the fiftieth. He'd called his own government, he'd called Kiku's government who did not answer, he'd called Ludwig and Alfred, he'd even called the airline company - and all he had gotten was the information that Kiku had arrived to Japan. He was in Japan, he had arrived, and he had vanished at some point. He didn't know what to make of it, he hadn't heard anything from anyone. He had refused to turn the television on for fear of what he might see, but he knew that would soon be his last option. And he was still processing what he had found out ten minutes ago. The Second Players were here, they were in their countries, amongst their people, where they couldn't be seen or heard.

And now, he feared the worst. He was afraid that something had happened to Kiku. That something in his country had gone off, or even worse, that the Second Players had made a move. And he refused to think that, they couldn't have yet done anything, it was too early. Then again, he really wanted to make sure. Alfred had told him about what was going on in California, and California was bigger in size than the Kiku's entire country. He turned to go back inside, and closed the door to the courtyard. He made his way to the living room, where he found the remote to the television and turned it on. It would be about five minutes before the evening news, and he honestly would have a hard time not finding those five minutes to be killing him.

He was growing more and more worried by the second, and sat on the couch. Now more than ever, he wished Kiku would be here, reassuring him that it would all be alright. But of course, if Kiku were here, Yao would have nothing to worry about in the first place. The younger man's calm composure always was helpful in such situations, and even though Yao was older, he found himself sometimes needing the island's help to keep himself calm. The screen flashed and changed, and the _'BREAKING NEWS'_ text on it made his heart skip a beat. He feared that something had happened to someone. He feared that something had happened to Kiku.

_"Yesterday, the Japanese army successfully attempted a coup d'état against the Tokyo government. In less than twenty-four hours, the army leadership assumed control of the country. As of yet, there is little information about the general situation in Japan, but from what we have received it seems that the Yakuza and army are operating together, for reasons unknown. Of the exiled government, one minister on a diplomatic trip to China has relayed some of the knowledge he has from having maintained contact with other Japanese officials. The Commander in Chief of the Japanese armed forces has assumed a position of leadership, while several new faces have been seen with him - no names have been disclosed as of yet. We will keep you updated on the situation."_

Yao couldn't believe it. How had this happened?

_"Meanwhile, riots have broken out in south-west USA, with the government of California being overthrown. The leader of these revolts is said to be Allen Jones, but no more information on this man has been given out. The American government is attempting to control the situation, but although the FBI have deployed most of their force to surround the states in the concerned area and clashes between law enforcement and rioters are continual, very little progress is made in any direction. The Mexican government has issued their worries about the revolt spreading southward. The CIA has been collecting reports and information from around the world in order to gain more knowledge on the current confusing situation, and about the worldwide riots."_

What on Earth was going on?

_"In Europe, small uprisings and riots have occurred in France, Spain, Germany, most of Eastern Europe, and multiple other countries. Greek police has found itself nearly incapacitated as a country-wide general strike has arisen. While the British Isles have mostly closed off contact with the mainland, the situation in Scotland is not yet clear. The Scottish Premier made an appearance an hour ago, stating that if the situation in Britain did not settle down, 'Scotland would take matters in its own hands and decide its own fate', perhaps insinuating independence from the United Kingdom. In Italy, rioters have taken to attacking government buildings, and there is a serious threat of the success of this revolt. The Italian Parliament, without the help of other European nations, is concerned that the government could not hold out much longer as parts of the army and police have joined the uprising."_

Yao was now torn - torn between mixed feelings of anger, worry, fear, terror, hate and just about every other negative feeling there was, every other negative feeling that existed. How had they allowed this to happen? How had the Second Players walked around straight under their noses? How had they neglected their people so badly that they now revolted against their government, and unwittingly, their country? Every single time a revolution had previously occurred, it was the government that was replaced. But now that the Second Players were perfectly ready to take over, it meant that every single citizen that turned against their government, meant that they joined the new government, the new idea, the new country. No citizen knew this, of course. No citizen had any idea they themselves were killing their countries, and maybe that was the problem.

He turned off the television - it was even worse than usual, very much worse. He made phone calls left and right, every second call being directed to Japan - he could only hope that one of his calls for Kiku would be answered, but none were. But he called his own government, and he tried calling Alfred who went straight to voicemail, and Ivan was the same, and he did not feel like getting engaged into European problems at the moment. He had a feeling he would have to, at some point, anyway.

* * *

Rifling through her wardrobe, a young girl began stuffing clothes into a duffel bag in haste, throwing in anything that fit her and would be useful. Sneakers? Yes. Summer dress? Hell no, she'd hated that one anyway. Soon there was a pile of discarded shoes and dresses and skirts and frilly shirts and light jackets tossed on the floor, growing by the minute. Instead, the duffel bag seemed to fill at a regular but slow pace. She glanced at the bag after a while, judging it was enough to last her for long enough to get out of the state. She then opened the safe in her closet, took out two handguns, stuffed one into the back of her jeans and the other was thrown amongst the clothes into the bag. She then quickly made her way to a supply closet, and from there she fished out two hunting rifles, discarding the one in worse condition, before reaching back in and pulling out a semi-automatic rifle of calibre .22, one of her favourite. It would be useful too, because the backfire wasn't as bad as in most other automatic and semi-automatic. It was also big enough calibre to cause considerable damage. She swung the strap of that one over her shoulder, and made her way downstairs quickly.

In the kitchen, she opened the cabinets one by one, snatching out a great number of bottles of water and canned food, before turning to the utensils and carefully selecting the sharpest knives. Digging deeper into the cupboard, she found her old hunting knife, and its sheath, and attached it to her belt, securing it there. She then quickly made a checklist of all she'd picked out and it seemed she had forgotten nothing. Making her way through the back door, she carefully examined her surroundings before progressing down the streetlamp-lit alley. She wouldn't put it past Allen to have placed already people on watch and to look out for her.

Hell, if she did get caught, Allen would get a welcome à la old Californian. The welcome she had given any new arrivals after the gold rush, those who wanted simply gold and to bustle in to reap the goods. The welcome she had given the Okies in the '30s. The welcome she had given anyone who dared to invade her land without her permission - the welcome that stated clearly, "This is my land, and my land isn't your land. Get off my land."

Calliope was the Greek goddess of Epic Poetry. Not 'epic' as in the wicked, awesome slang meaning of 'epic', but the adventurous and tale worthy 'epic'. Her name symbolised inspiration, arts, creativity - and Lord had she lived up to that name. And she could be creative as hell when it came to ways to welcome someone to California. And Allen was a downright idiot for defying her. If he ever caught her, she would kill him on sight. If she got out of the country, she could find Alfred and get the entire country on alert. Then she'd have additional help to kill him on sight.

But as she went up the street, the calm and quiet unnerved her more and more. The first problem she had was to get out of the state unharmed. Then she would worry about the rest of the things she had to do. But she would have expected more chaos, more things happening at the moment, honestly. Where was everyone? Riots like these didn't die out. They all had to be somewhere. A thought hit her.

She hoped to die that the people weren't guarding every single road into and out of the state, because she'd have a hell of a time finding a way around that. Maybe she could pull a 'von Trapp family' and hike around them, but it would be very much of an inconvenience. Maybe she could seek refuge in Mexico? She'd always liked the Latina country, and even though Maria had an intense dislike for her father, she had no qualms against befriending Alfred's western daughter. She hoped she at least had one chance of escape - whatever it might be. Because every second she spent on the road, every second she walked, meant a second closer to either her doom or her freedom.

It was dark, and even though lamps did dot the street and the moon was high, it was weak lighting compared to the gloom her situation suddenly brought her. The fire she had left her home with had suddenly died out, suffocated by the cold outside air. She turned left, and the right, left again, another left, right,, then left, then right, until she lost count. She knew herself - her state - by heart, she couldn't get lost in her home.

 _Home_.

It wasn't until now that she realised she might never see the house she had lived in for fifty years ever again. It wasn't until now that she realised she had so quickly left her life behind - although, really, what life did she have? A bunch of pictures with random strangers on the street were on the computer that lay on her desk, and some unimportant phone numbers were on the cell she had left in her nightstand, because telephone lines had been cut and she had no doubt telephones were currently being tapped. The last thing she wanted was to get caught because she was calling anyone. She had a few photo albums, a few relics that she had kept for old time's sakes, but none of those things would qualify as any kind of life. The life she knew was what she had with her sisters and brothers and family and immortal friends, whom she saw once a year if she was lucky.

Pausing, she leant against the wall of the building she had been walking next to, to catch her breath. She hadn't noticed she'd started running, actually. What was she so eager to get away from? Her people? Or the traitors? Fear? Duty? She didn't know, nor did she care at the moment. She could have an important self-evaluation moment later on, when she was either rotting away in a prison cell or in the safety of a friendly house.

But not now, not when she was in enemy territory, in dangerous waters, where she was being hunted like a prized deer. Although a deer would get a quick and swift death. She had no doubt she most certainly would not be that lucky.

Enemy territory indeed.

It was ridiculous how what once was home soon had soon become the most hostile place to her.

* * *

" _Por la última vez te voy a decir esto: no quiero, puedo o voy a ayudarte_!" An angered voice shouted from the other end of the line. Alfred pulled the phone back a bit from his ear so as not to shatter his eardrum. He looked at his boss in desperation. This was going nowhere! While his Latina neighbour screamed profanities in Spanish at him, he mouthed different things to his exasperated President: 'This is not going anywhere. What am I supposed to do? Send a bunch of tanks rolling into Cali? What the hell do you think that's gonna do to the rest of the nation? I'm not that stupid! And this little sassy bitch here refuses to help me because of a silly fight-' " _Alfred, you bastard, are you even listening to me? Hm? Of course you're not! You never are! And that's another reason why I refuse to help you, because you're too goddamn proud to get your head out of your own ass to listen to me telling you that's why I won't help you!_ " Alfred raised an eyebrow in confusion. What the hell was she on about?

"Listen, okay, it's a teeny favour, that's all I need, nothing more, nothing less! I just need you to make sure that if Calliope crosses the border that: a) she isn't shot on sight, b) she manages to come back across home, c) that you -"

" _Calliope? What happened? What's the matter with her? Did something happen to her? Is she alright? Is she hurt?_ "

Alfred raised another surprised eyebrow at this reaction. Since when were the two of them buddy-buddies? "Uh, have you not seen the news?"

" _Uh, no, I haven't - been a bit busy dealing with increased drug traffic and shit because of you not regulating your country well enough_!"

"Well, fact is, the Second Players have showed up and basically either all of us cooperate or we're fucked, and the problem is that Allen has now overrun California and he's going for-"

" _Where is she now?_ "

"I don't know, that's exactly the problem! I'm doubting she's had time to leave the place, because otherwise she'd have given me a call!"

_"Well what the hell am I supposed to do? Open my borders for a bunch of your people to just pour in? Not happening."_

"Maria-"

" _Don't 'Maria' me, we aren't friends._ "

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Fine, Mexico, will you just help me out here? Callie's your friend, she's my daughter, and she needs help! I don't know what to do any more than you do, it's been a while since I last saw the Second Players," Alfred stated sarcastically.

 _"I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise you anything. Not that I would promise anything anyway."_ There was a sigh at the other end of the line, and Alfred showed his boss a thumbs up. The President seemed relieved, and strolled out of the Oval Office to catch some air and talk to some people. Alfred jumped to the opportunity (as he always did) and casually fell into the comfortable armchair at the desk. Heaving his legs up on the mahogany table, he listened to his neighbour as she made it clear to him that if she found him taking advantage of open borders, Alfred would be unlikely to be alive for the next World Summit. Which, in fact, Alfred had no idea when it would be because of the complicated situation the world had fallen into.

"Alright, alright, I get it, I won't take advantage of this!" _Jesus Christ is she complicated._ There had been a point where they hated each other more than Ivan and Alfred hated each other. Although that hadn't lasted that long. "But thanks for your help, Mex! I'll be sure to-"

_"Don't call me that, and I don't want anything from you except peace and quiet and being left alone. Move to Canada, that would be great."_

Alfred was confused by that statement, but he found he rarely could make any sense of her words. "Fine. Call me if you find her."

 _"I think she'll call you herself, idiot."_ And she hung up. Alfred leant back in the chair, closing his eyes for a minute. This was getting more and more complicated. He then opened his eyes again and picked up his iPhone, unlocked the screen and went directly to the CNN application, scrolling through the news. Basically, what he gathered from that, Europe was screwed, Asia was messed up, no-one knew what the hell was going on in Africa, South America was fucked, and basically there was no information about anything. He paused every two seconds to read the headlines of the news, not reading any article in full. He didn't have time.

Japan and Italy were basically lost. A new war had broken out in the previously sort of peaceful Middle East, while unrest was growing especially in South-East Asia. Riots were everywhere. Canada - shit! Alfred had completely forgotten about his own goddamn brother! He hit search, and was surprised that no 'Breaking News' results came up. There was only an article about a street fight that had broken out yesterday in Winnipeg and a protest in Montreal. Alfred frowned, but had no time to wonder about that for long before his boss entered the Office once more.

"Alfred, for the five hundredth time, take your feet off my desk, please!" He said exasperatedly. Alfred scrambled out of the chair, muttered an excuse and dashed out of the room to go to his own office, where he turned on the television on mute, he flicked the radio on and put the volume up, and turned his laptop on. He made a number of calls and answered even more, all the while giving orders left and right to people passing the open door of his office. He scrolled through the front page of CNN, probably his most trusted news source at the moment. That was made difficult by the page automatically updating when a news article came, and because all happenings now were major events, they were all under the heading 'Breaking News'. At this rate, Alfred felt it was the world that would break.

* * *

"Yo, West!"

Ludwig groaned when he heard the obnoxious voice pierce through the air, even above all the other voices in the room. He excused himself to the man he was talking to, and turned towards the voice, or its general direction. He peeked above all of the diplomats' and politicians' heads to locate the albino making his way through the crowd. Ludwig leant against the glass and iron railing of the spiral ramp he was on, the one winding around the dome of the room. He looked down to see other people streaming into and out of the great room, whose vaulted ceiling and central sculpture caught the eye. The mirrors on the sculpture glinted in the sunlight that the Reichstag Dome allowed in. The Reichstag was busy as ever, and so was Ludwig. And of course his bother of a brother chose _now_ to catch up to him and - well, Ludwig had no idea what Gilbert actually wanted from him. Gilbert pushed him on the shoulder in a brotherly way that annoyed Ludwig to the extreme.

"Is there something you want, Gilbert?"

"Nah, just hanging with you! Man, we haven't, like, hung out for ages - since we left the meeting. You're getting boring! I'm supposed to be the older one of us, but honestly, even I couldn't tell that from the outside. You're supposed to have fun!"

"Gilbert, have you been following the news?"

"'Course I have," Gilbert said, shrugging. "We can't do anything can we? Right," Gilbert shifted weight from one foot to another. "Listen." Ludwig looked at his watch, and saw that it was exactly noon and time for the conference to resume. He began to turn to leave, Gilbert following him. "Okay, sure, Scones has some trouble, so does Francey-pants, so does everyone. But we're not German police officers, or Interpol, or anything - we're barely politicians. We can't do anything except decisions." Ludwig paused and turned to his brother.

"Are you actually making a reasonable point for once?" Ludwig asked.

"Yeah, I am - I'm not your older brother and a former kingdom who had military might for nothing. But take it from me, unless we're involved in straight-out war and standing at the front of the lines and firing a gun, the only thing we can do is listen and take part in decisions. So, how about we wait until this gets political or military, and how about you don't drown yourself in paperwork that you can have someone else do? Because honestly, you've been working yourself out for a week and the decisions that you're making aren't getting any better - no offence to whatever decisions you've made. But seriously-"

" _Herr_ Beilschmidt!"

Both Ludwig and Gilbert turned to a young man dashing along the corridor, dodging the people walking around. He finally stopped in front of them, and spoke, out of breath. " _Es tut mir Leid,_ but this cannot wait. We received a message from the Lieutenant General that a division of soldiers have mutinied, and refuse to cooperate. He says he fears that the division may be providing rioters with weapons - he has asked the Chancellor for an emergency meeting."

Ludwig glanced at his brother, who sported a look of surprise on his face. "When did he say this happened?"

"Lt. Gen. Schneider said this occurred earlier this morning, at around 0600, but that difficulties of communication made confirmation difficult - he received this information only about an hour ago."

"Does he know anything about what the rioters are planning?"

"No, except that some reports of major locations being targets have come in via unofficial means."

Ludwig frowned. If the mutiny had started at 6 a.m., and it was now 12 p.m., that meant that the mutineers had had six hours to provide the rebels with weapons and that by now those weapons could be anywhere.

"Gilbert, is Roderich at our flat right now?"

"Came in this morning on an earlier flight, I got him from the airport with his boss whom I drove here. He said Ersébet was held up."

Ludwig nodded. "Do you think it has anything-"

"To do with this? I read that the situation in Hungary has worsened to the point they're sending in the army to the streets." _Which we probably should also be doing,_ were the unsaid words both countries understood.

Ludwig turned to look down at the people underneath him. His gaze latched on to a young man, followed by two women, all smartly dressed and carrying suitcases. They made their way to the centre of the room, right at the foot of the glass sculpture. "Gilbert, you have to notify Roderich and his boss of this, while I get the Chancellor and see if I can warn the Bundestag. We-" The three people were talking casually, as one of them glanced at their watch. As if synchronised, they all put their suitcases to the floor, and began walking away. It took Ludwig a moment to realise what was going on, but when he did, everything happened so fast.

"Run!" Came the shout, as Ludwig pushed Gilbert forwards, down the spiraling ramp they were standing on, towards the lower floor and -

Then came the explosion - loud, terrifying, paralysing, shattering, a powerful shock-wave of both senses and emotions as the sound overloaded their ears and the light blinded their eyes and the blast shook the building and broke the glass that came raining down from the ceiling and walls. Ludwig had no idea where he or anyone else was. He found himself hitting the floor, feeling stabbing and prickling pains on his arms, legs and torso, covering his head from the shards. As soon as he felt the floor settle down a bit more, he found that the ramp had collapsed and they were on the floor level of the dome. He stood, only to notice the structure of the shattered dome ready to fall. He looked around, looking for his brother. He felt a sharp tug at his arm and heard someone mumble something - or had the blast temporarily affected his hearing? He turned, meeting Gilbert's red eyes, his mouth moving with speed - but no words were audible. But the frantic pulling and the look in Gilbert's eyes told Ludwig they had to move. He followed Gilbert almost blindly, racing through hallways and corridors and staircases, past people going in every direction. In more or less the time it took for Ludwig to find his bearings once more, he found himself outside, in the mild autumn air, the sun shining down on them. But turning to the Reichstag - or what was left of it. There was nothing left of the glass that had been the symbol of German reunification was now gone, as was the better half of the front facade of the building. He also saw that both left and right wings of the building had been attacked. He tried to look around for casualties and injuries, forgetting his own as he raced amidst the police cars and ambulances and the swarming people.

What in the world was happening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> var är - Swedish: Where are
> 
> ja kuka helvetissä se onki saa tervetuliaiset suomalaisittain - Finnish: And whoever the hell they are, are going to be welcomed the Finnish way (not proper, written Finnish, but spoken - if you're Finnish you'll know, if you're trying to learn it, good luck, if you're neither, you're better off).
> 
> jag vill inte gör något dumt - Swedish: I won't do anything dumb
> 
> Venäjä - Finnish: Russia
> 
> saatanan kommari - Finnish: fucking/sodding commie
> 
> siheyuan - Chinese: type of historical house, the almost stereotypical Chinese houses that Mulan lived in. I find them stunning.
> 
> por la última vez te voy a decir esto: no quiero, puedo o voy a ayudarte - Spanish: for the last time I will tell you this: I don't want to, can or am going to help you
> 
> herr - German: mister
> 
> es tut mir Leid - German: I'm sorry
> 
> Notes
> 
> (1) I found out that Finland is the world's no.1 coffee-consuming country, averaging 9.6 kilograms of beans consumed per person every year - an average of almost three cups a day. And that average is an average, so take children out of the equation and I think that the numbers would rise. I, myself, prefer sticking to tea.
> 
> (2) So this probably demands a bit of an explanation for those who don't know much about Finnish history, which is just about everyone - almost including me depending on the events. 2P Finland is depicted to wear a similar uniform to Tino's, but a red version of it. Also, he is often referred to as "Red" and he refers to Tino as "White". In 1918, after achieving independence from being a Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire, Finland underwent a bloody Civil War between the conservative, Senate-led and German-supported Whites and the communist, Bolshevik-supported Reds. This was due to the Russian Revolution, and the Bolshevik victory had encouraged communist and socialist parties all across Europe to change their country. And as Finland was a newly-independent country, there was not yet a real government (despite it being a Grand Duchy, having been granted more independence than under the Swedes), so this was the perfect opportunity for the Reds to attempt to seize control. The war ended up killing almost 40,000 people, and ended in a victory of the Whites. So, here was a short history of the Finnish Civil War, and the explanation for the existence of another communist for Alfred to rue. And Tino, too.


	9. Raise Hell

_"You can run, but you can't hide,_   
_Time won't help you - 'cause Karma has no deadline."_   
_\- True Friends, Bring Me The Horizon_

"Hey br- What the _fuck!"_ Alfred jumped back, his arms held up in the universal sign of surrender when the barrel of a hunting gun was pointed at him. He looked up into the violet eyes of his brother, who seemed to still not have recognised him. "Uh, Mattie? Matt, you're scaring the living shit out of me, I don't want the United States to die at the hands of his Canadian psycho brother!"

That seemed to snap Matthew out of it. He looked at Alfred, slightly confused, then at the gun, before letting out a soft "oh" and lowering the weapon. Alfred kept eyeing it nervously and would not let his eyes off it. "Sorry, Al, I've just been a bit on edge what with all the stuff going around my country." He looked at his southern neighbour, who still had not let up staring at the gun, as if challenging it to raise its nose again at him. "Are you okay?"

"Uh..." Alfred finally looked at Matthew. "No, what the hell, man?" Alfred side-stepped Matthew in the doorway and barged into his house, his arms gesticulating wildly as he launched into a rant. "The fuck went through your mind when I rang the doorbell after calling you fifteen times to tell you I was coming over? That I might be someone who wants to kill you?"

"Yeah," said Matthew. He was ignored.

"Seriously, I don't hear any news from you, I get worried, and my boss allows me to come here to make sure you're safe - maybe I should worry about my own damn safety now what with a fucking deranged trigger-happy mental case in the same house as me! What are you, Switzerland? 'Cause damn, I don't wanna know how your aim is, that's just scary. You spend too much time hunting polar bears or whatever. Seriously-"

"Al, I'm fine, you're fine, and I'm not a 'deranged trigger-happy mental case'. Why are you here, though?"

Alfred seemed to calm down. "Right, well, that's because I scrolled every news and I hadn't heard anything from you so I came to check on you."

"Don't you have your own country to worry about?"

"Yeah, but I also needed to get the fuck away from there, it's absolutely crazy down there. It's like I need a bajillion cups of coffee just to have enough attention to keep track of what I'm supposed to do. After military meeting number 745 of the day, I seriously don't have any more brain cells to give anyone." Alfred slumped onto the couch, and let out what seemed like a pained sigh.

"Right." Matthew stood for a moment, not really sure what to say. He turned to go to the kitchen. "Do you want anything?"

"Huh? Oh, sure, whatever you're getting," Alfred called out.

Matthew grabbed two beers, and went back to the living room, where Alfred was rubbing his side with a soft grimace on his features. "Al, are you alright?"

Alfred jumped a bit, sitting up straight once more and plastering a smile on his face. "Course I am! Why would I not be?"

"Alfred, does your boss know?" Matthew stared him dead in the eye.

"Uh, I don't know what-"

"Bullshit, show me what happened to your side." Alfred opened his mouth. "Al."

The American huffed, but shrugged off his bomber jacket and suit jacket, and lifted the white button-up's corner to reveal his left side. There was a white bandage that seemed to run around his waist. Alfred hesitated, before removing the bandage. That action revealed a stretch of angrily reddened skin, blistering viciously. Matthew judged it as a second-degree burn.

The first thought running through Matthew's mind came out of his mouth. Not that it was one that made much sense. "Did you seriously just rub a burn with your hand?"

Alfred looked confused for a moment. "No! What? No! Just the irritated skin near it, not the blisters." He looked down at the wound. "I'm not fucking stupid," he mumbled.

"Have you cleaned it well?"

"Yeah-"

"Bacitracin or Polysporin?"

"Uh, I don't know, whatever I had in my cabinet for burns?"

"You didn't put butter on it, right?"

"No, what the hell?"

"Fine, okay," Matthew settled back and allowed Alfred to bandage the burn again. After that, he reached for the beer that had been placed on the coffee table. "What happened and where?"

Alfred didn't answer for a moment, instead taking a gulp from his bottle before running a hand over his face. "California. I don't even know what happened, I think there was some sort of bombing thing - Allen's taken over the military there and he's gotten his hands on planes and tanks - I don't even know all of it. I only know what I've been told, and that's a bare minimum."

In a fit of fury, Alfred slammed the bottle onto the small table, the wood creaking under the force of the action, some of the beer sloshing onto the table. He stood up, pacing angrily around the room. "I don't fucking get it! Everything - every single bit of information coming into the White House is on a need-to-know basis, and I have the highest fucking clearance in the country! Because I am the goddamn country! But no, every single time I ask someone a question, they shrug or smile or look at me sheepishly as if they don't know what the hell is going on and tell me to ask someone who knows. Even my boss only tells me what I explicitly need to know to make a decision or listen to someone speak or whatever. It's as if they don't trust me to run myself! It's freakin' ridiculous, and that's why I needed to get the hell away from there. I just decided to let them try to run the show on their own, see how long they can last without me behind them telling them what's a stupid move and what's physically impossible to pull off."

Alfred turned to look at Matthew straight in the eye, but it was as if he wasn't seeing his brother but a member of his government, because his eyes were burning. He placed his hands on the back of the couch, leaning forward in a dangerous stance. "I lived through 1776 and the Revolution. 1861: the Civil War. I lived through 1914: World War I. 1929, the Crash. 1939, World War II. 1945: the atomic bombs. The whole goddamn period from the fifties to the nineties? The Cold War, Korea, Vietnam, Iran, Cuba! In the new millennium - Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria and the whole Crimea shit. 2008, which none of my politicians remember or care about any more (1). And then everything going downhill from 2016, with Yao fucking about in the South China Sea and North Korea - I had to nearly annihilate the country (2)! ( _ **A/N** : Read, in 'Notes', point (2)! Please! It's very important!)_" He shouted, listing years off the top of his head. "There isn't a single military or political move I haven't yet seen, except one - nuclear fucking war! I know how each tactic or diversion or attack is going to work out. I know how people will react. I know it, because I am them and they are me. They've driven me mad, over and over and over again, time after time, and hell, it's only now that I realised that I needed them to do so in order for me to properly understand them."

As he continued, his anger was still clear, and Matthew didn't really know how to react to this new side of Alfred, one he had never seen before. "So, let them make the mistakes. Let them think they can fix it. I'll go back home in a few days, once Allen has overrun more than just California - Oregon, Arizona, Washington,... He can reach Indiana for all I care, or cause another fucking Civil War if he wants to - at least I'm not going to fight my own damn self this time around. But I'll be back in a week, and when I am, maybe they'll have realised they have to let me take the reins. I don't know what Allen can do, but they know even less." He sighed and leaned back. "Let them fuck up. Maybe I'll be dead by the end of the week."

Matthew had been silent throughout the entire scene, only observing the change that had occurred in Alfred. He didn't know when that had come around. He remembered playing with Alfred in the Great Plains when they were nothing more than colonies. He remembered the cheerful Alfred from before the Revolution, and helping Alfred through the oppression he'd felt. He remembered dealing with Alfred after the Revolution, when he'd been hurt, betrayed, heartbroken. He remembered the Civil War, and Alfred fighting his own inner demons - Alfred losing his mind. After that, he'd been a bit more down to earth, but the gleam had still returned to his eye. He'd kept it throughout the early 1900s, managed to uphold at least a pretence of it through both of the world's most devastating wars. Only when the Cold War began was it that something seemed to change in him: he'd become much more threatening, dangerous, powerful, and that was reflected in both his personality and attitude at the time.

After that entire ordeal had ended, the Alfred that Matthew used to know seemed to have been permanently damaged, perhaps beyond repair. He'd become less obnoxious, while still pursuing nearly lost causes. He remembered a time - not too far back, actually - when Alfred had for a moment returned as the Canadian knew him. It was on one of their age-old traditions of fishing trips in the Great Lakes. But then, he'd stretched himself too far with war, and there had been the fear that he had become a waning power. But Alfred had never said anything about that, and he'd then managed to obtain peace in the Middle East and draw himself (mostly) out of there, and built his country and pride up again. But Matthew knew that before, Alfred would never have left his government or people in a time of crisis, however dreadfully they might have been treating him. But seeing Alfred now, it was as if he was seeing a completely new nation, almost. His eyes were cold, angry, deadly, and his voice was drowned in something unlike anything Matthew had ever seen his brother be like.

The Canadian realised he still had to say a word, but it seemed like Alfred was settled deeply into his thoughts.

"Alfred," Matthew started, if only to get Alfred back to the real world. He knew how horrible one's own thoughts could be. He paused, hesitating for a moment when the American's blue eyes snapped to him. "You need to go back, you know that?"

Alfred glared at the wall. "Yeah." He exhaled. "Yeah, I know."

Matthew saw the look in his brother's eyes, a mix of loss and something akin to deep anger and many other things - including something deeply frightful. He quickly corrected himself. "B-but you can stay here as long as you want though."

"Thanks." Alfred was silent for a minute, before sitting up and standing. "I'm just gonna go and wash my face." Alfred left the room, and Matthew heard a door shut a bit down the corridor.

Alfred locked the door to the bathroom, leaning against it for a moment. He listened to his breath, evening it out, to his heartbeat, slowing it down some. He had to calm down, relax, find some sort of respite. He exhaled slowly, inhaling even slower. Pushing himself off the door, he went to the sink, and looked at his face. Had he not been standing still, he probably would have stumbled or tripped over his feet at the sight. He quickly turned on the tap, the freezing water flowing from it. Alfred splashed it viciously on his face, over and over and over again. Leaning heavily on the sink's border, he let the water flow under his blue eyes.

Under the blue eyes that had only just been filled with anger, fury, and... And something Alfred had hoped he would never see again. Something Alfred had tried to keep in check, something he had tried to keep hidden, something he had to keep hidden from the world.

It was that cold fire in his eyes that burned bright and dangerous. It was that calculating gaze, that saw everything and knew even more. It was that bottomless anger, that could bring the world to its knees in front of him. It was an apathetic heart, that would watch that same world fall without an ounce of regret. It was the paranoid fear, the one that doubted everyone and everything around him, second-guessing every move and action. It was a hidden intelligence, it was a smile-less face, it was a powerful potential. And it was something Alfred feared.

There was a reason he was the world's superpower. There was also a reason - that all other nations had tried to find, but failed - why the world's greatest power was so loud, obnoxious, annoying, near-idiotic. There was a reason why the world had been terrified of him and Ivan both during those frozen decades in the second half of the previous century.

He'd slipped. His facade had slipped, that pretence of an idiot hero, that mask of warm and affable and sweet and ridiculous stupidity he'd worn ever since before he had achieved the status of a great world power. Before the world wars. He had worn it, perfected it, mastered and modified and changed and styled it ever since the Revolutionary War, ever since he had beaten the world's greatest empire at his own game. Ever since then, he had felt that intelligence, that cold and calculating and heartless potential in him, which would help him grow, which would defend his country against anything and everything in the way.

He'd slipped, more than once. The attack on Pearl Harbor had once triggered it, and he'd been so overwhelmed that _that_ had gone unchecked. And he'd reacted accordingly. He'd attacked Japan viciously, and finally, he had ended up bringing the world's most dangerous weapon into the war. He'd seen the shock, the apprehension in other countries, but he'd managed to paint it off as... Well, he'd painted it off as a lot of things - a necessity, a test, a reaction, a final blow... They'd all accepted it once he had said he hadn't known this would happen. He had been able to convince them that time, and managed to reign _it_ in.

And then... He'd slipped up once more, but this time with both less and more damage, in different senses. There had been less nations to see it. But there had been one observer who'd seen it all. Who had noticed the sudden change in Alfred, albeit short and quickly suppressed. And that nation had been Ivan. It was during the Cuban Missile crisis, when Alfred's nerves were strung tight. At the height of the crisis, Kennedy and Krushchev had met together to try and solve the crisis. Of course, such a meeting naturally involved both nations, Alfred in white American naval garb, Ivan in black Soviet attire. Always trying to show the other up. Every time. And when their bosses' arguments had become as loud as Alfred's and Ivan's, they had excused themselves from the room and gone to another office to attempt another negotiation. But Alfred and Ivan had remained. And that was the mistake that had been made. The threats issued had quickly irritated Alfred up to the point where he no longer joked around. At one moment, after a very serious threat had been presented by Ivan to Alfred, he had fallen silent.

Rising from the table, he had stood to lean against it, his hands splayed on the surface. Looming over Ivan, he had issued another very, very real and dangerous threat, and he made sure Ivan knew he meant it, too. However, after getting halfway through the sentence, he'd realised his mistake, he'd realised hat he was doing, he'd realised the surprise and near-shock on Ivan's face at his viciousness. He'd quickly fired off another half-assed insult tailed by a ridiculous threat. But he knew he had tripped up and shown Ivan who he truly was. And after Ivan had remained silent for five minutes, Alfred had stormed out the room with a bunch of other insults. It seemed that was all he kept doing these days. But he had dashed to an empty storage room to calm himself down, to check back in. He'd heard Ivan walk past the closet, and opening the door to the next room - which happened to be the one their leaders had gone to. He had heard the solemn and demanding tone with which Ivan had retold what had happened ("no agreement was reached") before retiring to his hotel room.

Alfred doubted Ivan even remembered that day any more, but he certainly did. Otherwise, there was little doubt Ivan would look at him now the way he did. That he would be so... Uncharacteristically wonderful to the American. _Ivan..._ the whisper slipped past his lips. Their situation was one hell of a mess at the moment. Their bosses had been glad that they were - ah - resolving tensions. Ivan and Alfred were, in fact, resolving _decades_ of tension, frustration, annoyance, and a bunch of other things they could not properly name. But somewhere along the way of this rocky start of a relationship, Alfred had realised that he had - long ago - fallen head over heels for the Russian. How that had gone unnoticed or not understood by him, was beyond him. But it seemed that every threat and insult on his part was just a pathetic attempt to be recognised for the power he is by the power he loved. But he also knew that he wasn't going to say it any time soon - if ever - to the other. There was too much at stake: their current relationship, their nations, their people, their possible friendship... It would all go straight to hell if both of them did not play their cards correctly. And _love_ was the worst card to play at the moment. Although he doubted there would be many more moments to play any cards, either when Allen fucked up the continent of America, or when Alfred did so himself, or when Ivan found out who Alfred was in his core...

And now, he may have slipped up right in front of his brother. And that was something he had to fix - he knew if his brother knew who Alfred _could_ be, he would begin protecting himself to the last man. He might build a wall, or post troops to the border, or... All that because the person - nation - Alfred _could_ be was terrifying, powerful, dangerous, and most of all, had no qualms against using anyone and everyone as means to an end. Even those Alfred considered dearest to him.

Alfred knew that the things happening in his country threatened him. He felt the danger. He felt himself being torn between saving his country and saving the world. Because if he allowed himself to devote everything he had in him to help his country, there most likely would be no turning back. And he was afraid of that. The dilemma was eating him from inside, he was killing himself, and he had to choose quickly. But he also was afraid that whatever choice he made, the result would end up the same.

He hadn't left his own country because of his government, he had left because of himself. He was terrified, scared, and that meant he was dangerous. That meant that he might - under the wrong circumstances - crack, give in, relent, but no longer be able to reign himself back in. That's what he was afraid.

Sending some more water onto his face, he dried himself slightly onto a towel, not really bothering. Looking back to the mirror, he gazed at his normalised reflection. Plastering the look of the idealistic hero on his face, he turned to leave. He opened the door and went back to the living room where Matthew was about to go upstairs.

Alfred walked in, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, his cheeks slightly reddened from the water. His bangs were damp, and his shirt had taken quite a few droplets. But the American now had his stereotypical Hollywood smile on. The one Matthew recognised as the one he used every time he addressed his people, other nations, every time he had to make it seem like he had to make himself believe there was nothing better than being an American. But he knew that there really were very few things that were of a flasher nature than that smile.

"Yo, Mattie, where's the - oh, never mind," Alfred cut off as he saw the remote, flopping on the couch, crossing his legs, right ankle over left knee, and placing one arm on the back of the couch. "Mind if I change the channel? Just wanna watch the news, ya know, lot of things to keep up with." Alfred was the world's superpower, with troops scattered around the world, money tied up in companies and countries and with debts to a handful of countries now, with his people involved in every continent and every ocean, his politics dragged into every situation. It was only normal that he had more of a need to keep up with events all around the planet, more so than Matthew - who, though he himself was very involved in the world's affairs, was less so than his internationally infamous brother.

Matthew shrugged. "Sure, go ahead." He had stopped on his way out of the room and up the stairs, and decided to stay a little longer. It would do him some good to see what was going on with the world today.

"Well, shit," Alfred stated as he flipped to CBC, a newsreader rattling on and on about something Matthew didn't quite catch. But he sure did catch the headline that was written at the bottom of the screen.

"Al," Matthew said slowly, a frown coming to his face. "What the hell's going on?"

Alfred looked at his brother in slight confusion, before realising what Matthew meant. "Oh, my God, you haven't watched the news, have you?"

"Not since your call, not really," Matthew said simply, his worry increasing. "Why...?"

"That was, like, a week or two ago, Matt. Jesus Christ," Alfred said, turning to his brother. He chuckled, a hollow sound laced with both fear and danger. Matthew knew that when Alfred was scared, he was the most powerful and dangerous being on the planet. "That's a long story, for a period of what - a couple weeks?" Alfred snorted. "Hell, I missed about three hours of it, coming here. Basically same as if I had been gone for a year." Alfred turned to his brother. "Okay, so now, we've lost most of Indochina, some of India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, other Middle Eastern countries, South and West Africa, uhm... Romania, Bulgaria, Lithuania, Latvia, I think, and Chile, Argentina and Peru." At the blank look he was given, he clarified. "Those are the countries we've now lost to the Second Players. Oh, and add Japan and Italy to the list. They're calling them different names, mostly ranging around the terms of 'Reformed Republic' or 'Free' this and this."

"What the-? How-? We could,... there... they - are they-?"

"I don't know. Honestly, with how things are going in some countries, some of them might be dead. But others... I don't know, some I just don't feel like they'd just die that easily. Hell, it's been two weeks. There's no way of knowing except calling, and the problem with that is most phone lines have by now been cut off, more so over there. And there's nothing we can do, except look out for our own damn selves. But fair word of warning though, I don't know what's gonna happen, but I've got a pretty good feeling we'll all soon be tied up in a war with our own people, with other peoples and other countries, and with our evil twins. Its... There's going to be a point when we each have to stop being worried about everyone else and worry about our own damn selves."

Alfred snorted. "Never thought I'd say we have to stop being selfless. But you know how they say, in every book, in every movie, that unity's going to save them all? That the main characters have to rally together, have to work together and help each other to beat the evil whatever that is oppressing or trying to hurt them? I honestly don't think it's going to work this time. They're scattered. They're everywhere. They're in our own countries, but they're also at our neighbours', at our brothers', families', friends' places. And we can't deal with anything that happens outside our own country before we've dealt with the threat coming towards us ourselves. It's like the fact that there's a reason why in airplanes, the instructions are to put the oxygen mask on yourself first before helping someone else. It's not very useful to try to help others when you're dying - or worse yet, dead yourself. And that's exactly what's gonna happen to us if we don't take care of ourselves first. Our countries are literally going to eat us up from inside. I'm lucky that so far I've only had this kind of minor, surface wound. Who knows what everyone else is going through."

Matthew really had nothing to say, so he let Alfred continue. "I don't know what's going on with you and Matthieu, but Allen's trying to start a second civil war. Every European country is probably gonna be in one themselves, what with how it's going. For fuck's sake, my Presidential elections have been cancelled, and I'm stuck with a government that refuses to tell me anything. And if and when - because it's kind of due to happen at one point or another - a Second Player gets their hands on nuclear weapons, we've got to be ready and not twiddling our thumbs and trying to help others. It's do or die, survival of the fittest, now. And I want you to promise me you won't go looking for trou-"

Alfred was interrupted as his phone rang. Fishing the phone out of his bomber jacket's pocket, he glared at the Caller ID. He huffed. "Looks like they noticed I'm gone, after all."

* * *

"Bloody hell, Francis!" Cough. "No, you are not staying here another - leave, that's an order!" Arthur scrambled to collect himself, regain his composure, in the situation he had just been thrown in. Modern warfare was currently scaring the living daylights out of him - no-one could know in advance where the next attack would be, because one single person could do so much damage, could wound hundreds of people. It used to be an army being moved thousands of kilometres, and so everyone else would know about the movement hours in advance. But now... Hell, Arthur had felt fine two minutes previous to now. Francis was saying something, but Arthur couldn't hear him - or didn't listen, he was too busy trying to get his bearings once more. "Fr- Francis! Where - oh, God, there you-" cough. The racking coughs hacked at his weakened body, dragging droplets of crimson with them onto Arthur's white sleeve.

"Arthur, I'm here, I will - I've called your Prime Minister, I am driving you to a hospital right now, here let me - let me help you up," he heard Francis say. Francis grabbed his arms and put one around his shoulders, half-carrying, half-dragging Arthur out of his home.

"Fuck, Francis, that's not going to help!" Arthur's thoughts were clearing up, and he was gaining strength back into his legs. "A hospital isn't going to do a bloody thing, I've been attacked! They're probably busy enough as it is - bloody hell, I can walk, let me go!" Arthur tried to wrench himself out of Francis' grip, with very little result.

"You're in absolutely no state to stand, let alone drive. Fine, if you don't want to go to the hospital, I'll drive you to Downing Street, hm? Would you prefer that?" Francis asked, a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice. He knew that Arthur most certainly did not want to see his boss when he was in this state - it would cause unnecessary panic and worry. Especially what with his white button-up's sleeve and collar had blood scattered over them, and Arthur looked like he had not slept well for a year. His dark, sunken eyes were tired but furious and fighting, anger firing them. He supposed that he, himself, wasn't too much of a sight for sore eyes.

But Arthur seemed to have something else in his mind. "Yes, thank you, that would be brilliant," Arthur snapped at him, his tone completely serious. He handed his car keys to Francis, having already lost this battle. "I actually would prefer there, because I have things to do, people to see."

" _Têtu comme tu es, tu vas te causer ta propre mort_."

"Fuck - don't French out on me!" Francis snorted at the strange verb. He'd never heard that one before, not that it probably was even a real one. "And if you don't drive me to Downing now, I will not be the first thing my stubbornness kills!" Arthur threatened as he buckled up.

"I would have thought last night, including the two nights before that, would have loosened your nerves slightly," Francis remarked.

"The only thing those nights loosened were you, and my nerves are perfectly fine where they are," Arthur huffed, crossing his arms, before falling into a coughing fit. Francis handed him a white handkerchief, at which Arthur stared incredulously. "What is this, the 1850's?" But before Francis could retort, Arthur coughed again, placing the handkerchief to his mouth, red dotting the white.

They arrived quickly to the address, and Arthur was the first to jump - stumble, rather - out of the car, Francis fast on his heels. They walked through the opened door, only to meet surprised and horrified looks from anyone and everyone looking there way. Neither of them probably looked very reassuring - both had been up late, having woken up to Arthur coughing like mad. Their harsh gazes flitted across the room and the people as they progressed through the corridor, daring anyone to stop them. Arthur burst into his Prime Minister's office, Francis on his tail. He shut the door, and met a stunned Prime Minister.

"Arthur, what in God's name-"

"Prime Minister, please, I am the goddamned nation, what the hell do you think happens to me when two hundred people are killed?" Arthur snapped, before grabbing on of the newspapers scattered on the desk. "This happened, and now I'm here, coughing up blood, because I'm under attack from a bleeding group of organised terrorists! While you are sitting here, writing report after report after report, telling people to do this and that. Allow me to tell you something. Intermediaries don't work, they take up time! So, either you will stand up, and go tell the army to get the hell mobilised around major cities, get themselves prepared against another attack, address the people of Great Britain yourself and advise them of security measures, or I will take matters into my own hands! This has gone on for two weeks, I have asked you time and time again to prepare ourselves, but you have refused on the basis that the only proof of a threat is the small riots and my facts!

"This is not one country attacking another, this is a country attacking itself! My people, attacking me! They are following the leadership of someone just as powerful as me, just as knowledgeable, just as old and clever as me, because he is my reflection!" Arthur sighed, holding the bridge of his nose as his Prime Minister looked as confused as a fish in a bird's nest. "Imagine -" He paused, coughing once again. "Imagine looking into a mirror. You see your reflection. Except that reflection is a bit off - he has the same features as you, but perhaps slightly differently tinted hair, eyes, things like that. And while you, Prime Minister of Great Britain, live in a world where you need self-restraint, where there are laws and rules and people who enforce those rules and ways to stop those who don't - he doesn't. Your reflection lives in a mirror world of chaos, of disorder, a complete reverse of our own world. That is who we are facing. My reverse reflection, if you want to put it that way. He knows the same things I do, the same tricks, manipulations, methods, plans of actions, he knows me and I know him. Once upon a time, him and I - and every single country in the world and their reflection - were mentally connected. Through some complicated magic, I managed to lock them up into their own world, severing that connection. But as I can see that the magic I used to seal them up failed, then it's only a matter of time before the other spell lets up, too." Arthur could feel Francis shuddering at the thought. "But to make things short - I know him, he knows me, we know the other's moves, and we know the other's weaknesses." Or at least, should. "It's a matter of time before I find him - or vice versa - and that, Prime Minister, is when the real battle starts. When the country is divided, when half of my people side with him and his anarchy, that's when both of us are as vulnerable as the other. But if he gets the upper hand, I become mortal."

Francis frowned at this. He had not known about this - oh, God. That's when he remembered that the last time he had seen Francois, his counterpart had told him words that back then he had not understood. 'Un jour... One day, I will return. And once your people no longer trust you, no longer want you, that's when we'll be rid of you.' Francis snapped back to the present and Arthur was talking once more.

"When the majority of my people turn to Oliver, he gains strength while mine wanes. And we, nations... I don't know why, or how, have an immortal counterpart. But the difference, currently, is that I can live forever. Anyone can attempt to kill me, but I will heal. Only when at war can another nation permanently harm me." Every nation's scars told enough about that. "But they can't heal. They bleed like any other person, they will die if shot, stabbed, hurt too much. But when our people turn to them, they become the nation. They become untouchable, because they need to be there for all of the people. And while then again, we will be able to live just as long, it won't take long for them to hunt us down, and kill us like mere mortals. However, if Oliver - my reflection - were to enter into war with, let's say, America, and America managed to kill him, then I die, too. On the other hand, if I were to die, now, that would similarly kill him. The nation depends on its people, and the reflection depends on the nation. And that, Prime Minister, is why you need to get the country's and people's support once more. That is why you need the army on alert. That is why we need to rally as a nation - most certainly not internationally, that would doom each and every one of us. But England's - no, Great fucking Britain's - people need to stand together. And if you won't help them do that, then I bloody well will do so myself." Arthur was sent into a frenzy of hacking coughs once more, the speech having taken a toll on his already weakened body. He bent over slightly, his knees bending as he gripped the desk for dear life. Once that had subsided, Arthur cleared his throat, turning back to the Prime Minister with fiery eyes. "Even if it kills me," he snapped, before turning around and brushing past Francis and out of the office. Francis followed the Brit as they brushed past even more confused faces on the way back towards their car. Arthur had not been very quiet in his outburst, and so probably just about everyone who had been on the ground floor had heard every single word Arthur had said. Arthur ignored the hasty shouts of "Mr. Kirkland!" and "Sir!" as he burst out of the door and headed for their car. He seemed to pause for a moment, before looking back at the house behind him. Francis had stopped, waiting for the Englishman to decide on a course of action. Arthur finally turned to him, as if realising for the first time that the Frenchman was still here.

"What the- Francis, in God's name, you are going to ruin me one of these days, I hope you damn well realise that..." he muttered as he headed back for the open door of number 10, Downing Street. Oh, Lord, what the hell does he have in mind now? Francis thought. Waiting outside, next to the car, for Arthur's return seemed like a very good idea.

Meanwhile, Arthur was back inside the house, and had now decided it was a good idea to talk to the people there. He did not, however, answer their confused questions and shocked outbursts. "Um... Lewis, I know you're new, but please, could you perhaps find me a helicopter from somewhere? And - oh, Agnes, please call the Secret Service, because the man I came in with? Yes, him, well, I must get him onto that helicopter as soon as possible and I'm sure of two things. One, he will not go willingly, and two, he doesn't know what's good for him. Yes, tell them they can knock him out for all I care, as long as they get him on the chopper. Oh - sorry? Tell the pilot to head for Paris. Yes, Paris, France, for the sake of all that is good and holy here, does no-one know anything? It's no use flying him over to Texas, now, is it?" Arthur turned to more people, telling them to call this person and ask for that person. Five minutes later, he was back in his Prime Minister's office, unceremoniously having invited himself in. The room had somewhat changed since he had been here seven minutes ago. There were two people in there, one on the phone and the other was arguing with the Minister.

"Would anyone mind telling me what this cheerful conversation is about?" Arthur queried as he approached his boss and the other person, whom Arthur knew to be Mr. Leigh, although that didn't tell him anything else. Every country knew the names of every one of their citizens, whether or not they had ever met them before. The two men turned to him, and neither seemed to be able to find any words to explain what the hell was going on. "Well then, tell me this: where was the attack?"

"Northern England, near the border-"

"How many people were there?"

"Estimates range from one hundred to much higher."

"Nature of the attack?"

"Er... that's more complicated."

"Well, I have time on my hands," Arthur stated.

The Prime Minister sighed. "A number of-"

At that moment, the door burst open, interrupting the Prime Minister and the person who was on the phone. Arthur was about to whirl around and shout at whoever the person was to get the hell out and find something to do, but that plan was cut short after the whirling part. He had turned around to face exactly the last person he wanted to see at the moment. Or ever, rather.

"Well, hello. Don't act so surprised to see me, I thought you might already be expecting me." Oliver paused. "Although I guess not, from the looks on your faces. Which, in fact, are absolutely hilarious!" He broke a grin at that - it wasn't an amused one, no, it was wolfish.

Arthur had, for centuries, been targeted by different groups of people who wanted to get hold of him for one reason or another. Witch-hunters (because there was no way someone did not age, and wasn't a witch, and after being burnt at the stake twice, the evidence was pretty incriminating), a group of mad scientists (the secret to immortality was pretty fascinating),... And Arthur knew when someone looked dangerous - he could label someone as dangerous or as a threat from a thousand miles away. Unlike some other nations, who would label anything and everything that moved slightly to the left of that nation's wishes, and therefore tagging everyone as potential threats. One of those nations was Alfred, obviously. But Arthur knew that the grin Oliver had now was every shade of dangerous.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?!" Arthur shouted, a bit louder than he'd expected. But he refused to flinch or look as if he had not meant to do that.

"Oh, dear me, I thought you would have figured that out already!" Oliver sighed, almost wistfully. "Well, I guess I must explain, then, mustn't I? Arthur, it does not take a genius to figure it out, really. But, I suppose you've been cooped up in this secure and safe and pretty little world too long to see what's going on in front of your nose. Take a walk with me?"

"Like hell I am," Arthur spat, hand gripping the desk almost hard enough for the wood to splinter. He may not be a superpower or a worldwide empire any more, but he sure as hell had superhuman strength, as he was a nation. But he could feel it had waned, somewhat. He refused to let that show. "Gentlemen," he addressed the three other men in the room, without shifting his green-eyed gaze from his Second Player. "If you could give us a moment."

"Er... Mr. Kirkland, I don't bel-"

"You will do as I say, Mr. Leigh, if you do not wish to end up on my black list," Arthur enforced, never letting his look waver. Arthur and Oliver seemed to be having some sort of stand-off, that none of the three humans could understand. But what it was, was much more than just a petty staring contest.

Arthur could feel Oliver trying to prod at his mind, trying to penetrate his thoughts. That would lead to re-establishing the severed connection, that would allow Arthur to hear Oliver and vice versa. It would allow each to know what the other would do the moment they thought it up. Once the connection was established once more, it would take more energy and magic than Arthur had at the moment to seal it for a second time. And he refused to allow Oliver in. But he had a nasty feeling in his gut that whether he wanted it or not, he would lose. Oliver had regained his magic only about two weeks ago, and he had not used up energy trying to keep a whole bleeding country together, while Arthur had been regularly draining himself with little tidbits of magic, and what with the mess in his nation and government right now, it was almost a miracle that he was not some sort of withering nervous wreck.

"You do realise that you can't win this, don't you, Arthur?" Arthur remained silent, not wanting to let his mind drift to anything else than protecting itself against the exterior attack. "And all because you all were so focused on everything else that you didn't pay attention to us. Although, it's understandable, after we've been locked up so long, who would remember us? But you also forgot your people. You forgot their dissatisfaction, you forgot their anger, you forgot them. Tell me, when is the last time you personally addressed your people? But of course - they don't even know you exist! And that's why you cannot win, Arthur. Because you don't know your people. You aren't your people any more. All you represent now is your government, your small island surrounded by sea, all you represent is everything that isn't human. Isn't that sad?" All throughout his speech, Oliver kept randomly jabbing and stabbing at Arthur's mind, trying to gain entry but failing.

Arthur found himself completely silent, because he wouldn't allow himself the distraction of answering or giving Oliver the satisfaction of a retort. He hated playing defence. He felt weak, he felt powerless, he felt at the other's mercy. Because every time, without a fault, attacking was always easier than defending. When attacking, Arthur was able to call the shots. He could choose the time and place of the attack. He could choose how to proceed, how to go about it. He could choose whichever strategy he wanted, he could do whatever he felt like doing. But when defending, he had to second guess both his opponent and himself. He had to think about what his enemyight do. What else he might do. What would be the advantageous response. What would be practical, useful, probable, likely, feasible... He also had to think about how he would respond in every single moment. And most of all, he had to be constantly on his guard. And the fact that his moves relied on his adversary's, and that he could not sleep soundly at night nor take a break to breathe made him feel weak and powerless. And he absolutely loathed it.

"If you're worrying about other countries, I can tell you exactly what everyone is planning or doing right at this minute." Oliver paused. "But I don't think I will. See, telling you would just mean you might run off and warn everyone. And of course I don't want to see that happening, do I? But I can tell you what will happen to you. I am going to leave this room perfectly safe, and you won't be able to find me. You will try to unite your people and save your government and find me and try to stop me. By any means possible. But you won't be able to find me. At one point, I will have enough of the army under my control that there may or may not be some sort of civil war. But you'll not win this one, either. And I will overrun your government, I will return the nation to its people, and you will go into hiding. But I will try to find you - if I don't, it isn't too bad, really. Because then, you will die as a mortal would. I'll find a way to inflict upon you wounds that will kill you. And at the same time, I will use whatever firepower - or even nuclear devices!" He seemed excited at that prospect, "- to either destroy countries still rules by your kind, or engage them into the last World War."

For a moment, the attacks on Arthur's mind let up as he forcibly pushed Oliver out with whatever energy he had left. "Do you want to know something, Oliver? Allow me to bream these news to you, but that is most certainly not going to happen, not under my bloody watch! I am still England, and my people are loyal to me - not you! And I will find you, and I will end you like I should have done all those years ago!"

The attack on his mind redoubled in strength, and Arthur began to have a dreading feeling he would not last long. "Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. If only you knew how your people loathe you. If only you knew how long I've spent planning this. If only... What would your people say if they knew who you were? What would they say if they knew that you were the one who caused death and destruction to your nation for thousands of years? Who sent a country to war? Who built an Empire, but lost it by being cruel and vile to those people? What would they do if they knew that their nation is a power-hungry, controlling, manipulating near-maniac? Hundreds, thousands, millions have died through your hands, your voice, your thoughts! You have shrunk, Arthur, to a pathetic island in the middle of a big blue ocean. What would they do of they knew what you did to Alfred all those years ago? Or to Mattew? Francis? How you treated your colonies in India and Asia? How you relentlessly spent days and nights trying to build a nuclear weapon to gain the upper hand you lost a century ago?" Oliver grinned. "They wouldn't be too happy, would they?"

And as those words had left Oliver's mouth, Arthur's mind's walls and fortifications that he had spent years perfecting came crashing down from sheer fear, shock and astonishment. No one had said those things to him, except maybe he himself. And that made him more afraid than he had ever been - he was facing his own damn self.

XoXoXoX

Francis stared glumly ahead of him, glaring at the back of the plane's pilot. He ignored the man sitting beside him, probably a member of Arthur's Secret Service. He'd have to get back at the Brit someday for this stunt. He really did not like being escorted around London like a criminal just because a certain someone was being extremely and unnecessarily stubborn. Although he had made the decision that that someday would be far off into the future when all of this mess had been cleaned up, over and done with. He had been up in the air for a while now, he wasn't quite sure, but soon enough the announcement came that they would be landing. There, the agent would leave him alone and fly the plane back to England. And Francis would be sure to find out the man's name and deny him entry to France ever again. Or maybe he should just bypass the middleman and straight up block Arthur out. Hm, he'd have to think about that.

As soon as he had landed and managed to get a taxi at the airport, he drove to the Élysées where he supposed his boss might probably be. He might have some explaining to do, although he might just as well not. He had, after all, given a very good reason as to why he was going across the channel. He stopped. He'd completely forgotten about the helicopter that was, still, grounded in England. And his boss might not be too happy about that. Ah, well, it wasn't like they needed a helicopter any time soon. Entering his boss's office, he saw the President, the Prime Minister, the Minister for Defense and the Minister of Domestic Affairs, all engaged in heated conversation with every other person present.

" _Écoutez_ \- there is not way we can solve this by violence, we don't know where they are-"

"Which makes them more dangerous! We have to be ready!"

"But they're in hiding, there's no way we can just station people all over the country! We don't even have conscription, there's not enough-"

"How about we reintroduce that, eh? We're in a time of war, _pour l'amour de dieu!_ The Germans are getting ready for a war, so are the the English, and we're string here discussing what the hell to do! Germany is in a state of war, so should we! We don't know where or when the attacks are going to be, so we need to be constantly prepared-"

"All due respect, but we can't possibly declare war on our own people, and secondly, these are mere riots! They're everywhere, they cannot be that bad, can they?"

"Have you seen what has happened over in America? Have you? Well, it is bad! We can't keep meeting up and chatting and doing nothing! At least reintroduce conscription, and arm the major cities!"

"America has nothing to do with this, for God's sake! They're all the way over there, and their problems are completely unrelated to ours-"

"I would have to say that that is not completely true," Francis cut in. "President, I did explain the situation to you and Mr. Prime Minister, no? I believe that there is a way I can know what is going to happen, and were as when they are going to attack. If only you would tell me who 'they' are, exactly."

"There is a network of rioters around France, with seemingly ties to other groups in different places, who are trying to seize towns and cities on the basis and claims that they are giving France back to her people."

"Yes, I see. Have there been any attacks? I'll assume no?"

"Nothing major, no. A few scuffles or fights have broken out, but no weapons were used as of yet. But the panic is spreading quickly."

Francis nodded in understanding. "All I need is to find François, and then perhaps... I have to warn you: Arthur said this might and probably would end up happening sooner or later, but what I'm about to do would mean that I establish a... How to say it, mental connection between him and myself. Which would mean that I know what he will do, but it works the other way, too."

The men in the room looked lost, and Francis honestly had not expected them to understand. But he was most likely going to do this, whatever their response might be. Now, all he had to do was find the son of a bitch.

* * *

A figure stood in front of a cold, white-washed stone wall, his hands examining in mock interest the katana he had in them. Red eyes swept over the room, trying to find something to drag him out of the mindless boredom he was currently facing. Nothing stirred, to his chagrin. Not even the man tied t a chair. Unconscious, as he had been for the last few hours. The standing man could not wait for the other to awaken, and to be able to entertain himself with some casual interrogation and some... other _fun_ stuff.

He decided to take a small stroll around the room, his eyes taking in every single detail of the bound man. His head was sagged almost against his chest, his neck having no strength to hold it up. The usually proud and proper stance was utterly gone, having dissipated into thin air. In the dilapidated state he was in, his hair was matted with blood and grime and dirt - who knew whose blood that was. His clothes were rumpled, from having been used for a bit too long, and having been handled too roughly. There was a tear in his white button-up, which had been clean and crisp only a day ago. Or, as clean and crisp as a refugee and political escapee's clothes could be, when he was hiding. The tear had clearly been caused by some sort of knife, as there was underneath it a wound on the pale, pearly skin, marring it with the dried, brown, flaking blood. The man's red eyes sparkled at the opportunity the wound gave him. He'd have to have some more supplies brought in - although, perhaps he could wait a few days, no, hours, and in that time create more of those painful cuts.

Then, it happened. The man in the chair finally stirred, clearly coming out of his unconscious state. His head moved somewhat, as his ragged breathing became louder and more uneven. His eyes then snapped open, and his head upwards. The movement caused the wound in his shoulder to painfully be torn slightly, and he hissed. The standing man was behind him, so the sitting one had yet to notice him. In panic, dark brown eyes flitted worriedly about the cell, trying to gather his bearings and remember where he was.

Well, he was growing impatient, and so he leisuredly walked to the metallic door of the cell and knocked twice. He ignored the indignant shouts of "You!" accompanied by colourful language, He really did not have the patience for that. At that moment, the door opened, and two muscly men walked in wearing heavy black clothes.

"Release me immediately!" The man cried out.

"I don't think so, Kiku," Kuro grinned. He grinned at the defiant and uncharacteristic look he had brought out in the other Japanese man. It was rare to see his cool composure dismantle, but now that it had, there was a fierce samurai's spirit underneath it. "See, all that time you spent trying to overthrow this government I've implemented, I spent building that same government. And after days upon days of hiding underground with whatever is left of you archaic politicians, you should have realised you no longer stand a chance." He unsheathed his katana - or rather, Kiku's old katana, which he was now about to use against its owner in a symbolic gesture. He considered himself careful with detail, and appreciating the niceties of simple but meaningful gestures. Such as whose sword to use to kill whom. Dragging it across the bound man's chest, he then moved it to the shoulder and down the length of the arm. The touch was light, but he had seen Kiku tense under it. No mark was left... yet. "I was told that this would unfold in the following way. Once I have formed a government, all I need to do is wait for people to accept this government. And once the majority have done that, then _my_ government will have been properly implemented, and therefore I will be in power. And that, Kiku, will mean that I can no longer be mortally wounded in battle, but you... can." He emphasised it with a slash across the shoulder and downwards. It immediately started bleeding, showing no signs of stopping. In another situation, the wound would have healed quickly. "And now... This wound should heal in a day, perhaps two. And then the next one will take a day longer, probably. And the next one, and the next one, and the one after that, longer and longer than the previous ones. And when I see on you a week-old surface wound, then I guess it is safe to say that _I_ am in control, here and everywhere in this country. So, I will no longer depend on you, and hence I will have no use of you."

He promptly left the room, the heavy door slamming shut after the guards. This was going to be _fun_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> têtu comme tu es, tu vas te causer ta propre mort - Stubborn as you are, you will end up causing your own death.
> 
> écoutez - listen
> 
> pour l'amour de dieu - for the love of God
> 
> Notes:
> 
> (1) A list of important dates and events in History. I think all the events were more or less explained there, but just in case I'll make a complete list and explanations.  
> 1776: American Revolution.  
> 1861: beginning of the Civil War.  
> 1914: beginning of World War I, and yes, I know, the United States only became involved in 1917, but it must have been hard to watch from the sidelines as Europe was being run over by armies that were less friendly to America than for example the British Empire.  
> 1929: Wall Street Crash, where in many business went bankrupt and the entire world fell into a depression that lasted many years.  
> 1939: beginning of World War II, and again, even though the US were only forcibly involved by the Japanese in 1941, once more, Americans, though not keen on getting involved in the war, did send volunteers and were not exactly thrilled at the possibility of Europe becoming part of the German Reich, or worse, the Soviet Empire.  
> 1945: Atomic bombs are dropped in Nagasaki and Hiroshima in a last attempt to force the Japanese people into unconditional surrender.  
> 1950's to 1990's: Cold War: Korea was the first armed conflict between the US since WWII, and though not directly involving the USSR, there are still discussions about whether or not the Chinese were involved in the war only because they were following Russian demands. And it was America against two other communist countries anyway, so to Alfred, it probably counts as the same as if he had directly fought Ivan himself. Vietnam was also not direct conflict between US and USSR, but it was again conflict between America and a communist country, and a sore defeat at that. Iran was a mess - though often left out, because it technically was only in the later phases of the Cold War, and did not officially involve America or the Soviet Union, it was still tough because there were American soldiers and weaponry, and same form the USSR. Cuba was the missile crisis that had the world on its toes as there was the very imminent threat of open fire between US and USSR when the Soviet ships containing Russian shipments to Cuba nearly ran into the American embargo.  
> 2000's: Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria are modern-day conflicts that America has been on-and-off involved in these last years, since the whole Saddam Hussein ordeal, Al Qaeda, and now ISIS.  
> 2008: the latest economic crash after the real estate bubble that had built up over the years. Tough times once more.  
> 2014: Russia annexed Crimea, illegally in Alfred's opinion.
> 
> (2) THIS IS IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ! These events were my own addition. I've decided to include an alternate version of the events of 2016 into the story, to keep the flow relatively realistic within this timeline.  
> Brexit: the vote happened, but the Liberals after being voted into power after Tory kind of collapsed in on itself decided to simply forget about the entire issue and did not invoke Article 50. Of course, there was some... tensions between certain nations *cough* ArthurFrancisLudwig *cough* because of the mess of the whole issue afterwards, but by now they're pretty much forgotten.  
> American elections: Hillary was elected but after the four years were up she was not re-elected. However, there was little change to American economy or to the state of the country. America managed to remain world superpower in the face of problems and threats, but it was a question of time when that status would no longer apply. In late 2020s, early 2030s, the US elected in a new president, much more aggressive than most previous ones in terms of foreign policy, having decided to keep America as the world power. North Korea (as we have seen them doing these days) officially declared war on the United States after certain military operations in South Korea (such as the missile thing that is an issue today), and after North Korean troops mobilised at the border before once again marching across the 38th Parallel after a half a century's respite. Having an aggressive president, the American response was to answer brute force with brute force, and flew to the defence of S Korea. While certain army generals and such wished to use the nuclear weapon this time around, it was never used - however, America formed a coalition with China, who also felt fed up with North Korean idiocy, and these two countries attacked the northern part of the peninsula from two different sides, effectively meeting up in Pyongyang and dividing the country between China and South Korea, essentially completely invading the country. It no longer exists. The Middle East, though stabilised, is still rather volatile territory.


	10. Time Bomb

_"An eye for an eye, will leave the whole world blind."  
\- Mahatma Gandhi_

Nervously glancing into the room, he quickly pulled his head back. He was scared, afraid of what he might find in the adjacent room. When he was positive that there most likely was nothing in the next room, he stepped carefully into it. He immediately saw what resembled - to his fear - the scene of a fight. The television screen was smashed in, glass shards littered the floor, the coffee table was broken in half, the sofa overturned. There were only two options - either someone was looking for something, or they found it and it put up a fight. Feliciano had a feeling it was the latter option that had occurred here.

Feliciano took in every feature of the room, growing increasingly terrified of what might have happened, where his vanished brother could be, and who might still have remained behind. Despite what many a nation thought, he wasn't stupid. His so-called "grandfather" had been the first great empire in the western world. Who had conquered more than anyone before. Who had fought in more wars than could be remembered. And he had the art of war running through his blood. But also, he had lived and grown up and prospered in a continent that was almost constantly torn by war, ever since the fall of the Empire that had for so long kept peace without its territory. He had fought against so many enemies in so many wars. And even though many nations still, to this day, might consider him a coward, with no knowledge of weapons whatsoever, who couldn't hold neither sword nor gun properly, he still knew himself that he was perfectly capable of that.

He knew that on occasions, he was easily unsettled. At certain times he had burst into tears because of the mere thought of weapons and fights. He had run away from duty. But he had done all that because he still thought humanity deserved better than war. He believed conflicts could be solved without blood being spilt. He disliked the thought of killing, he hated seeing pools of crimson, he had a distaste for violence, and above all, he knew there were better ways d solving problems and of making peace than with war.

But he knew that there really was no way around this particular situation except armed conflict. He had heard the news from Ludwig, who had heard from Francis - who had first-hand experience from Arthur. He knew that their first mistake was to forget about the Second Players in their own universe, and that their second had been to let their guard down. That was always when something went wrong.

Europe had had nearly a hundred years of peace - something without precedent ever since the fall of the Roman Empire. Ever since the end of World War II, things had kept turning for the better, with some bumps in the road. But mainly, since the beginning of the new century and millennium, Europe had kept prospering. But it was only a matter of time before  _something_ happened, but clearly it was not the something that any had had in mind. While Feliks had complained at multiple world meetings since 2014 about how he needed more and more NATO protection - ignoring Ivan's dissatisfied glares, Alfred had at one point in the 2030s sulked for months on end - which had extended to a few years, in actual fact - because Yao's GDP had surpassed his own, before he was able to kick some incentive into his people to up his production. Some had said that Russia would be the next threat once more, others said that the Chinese were looking for world domination, while Southern Americans were accused of attempting to undermine western politics due to their economic growths (who knew what that was all about).

But none of them had spared a single - let alone a second - thought for the 2Ps. And of course, that came back to bite them, hard. And now, Feliciano found himself scared for his brother, scared for himself, his country and his people, standing in a ransacked living room with a bloodied shirt. He had seen what had happened with the government. The issue was still unresolved, and he could feel how it tore at his heart when his people raged against the people who were in charge - whom they themselves had put in charge. But he also knew that if he did not find his brother, there was a constantly growing chance that he might be dead. Southern Italy had been the most unstable area for a while now, and if Luciano and Flavio had offered them a preferable option to the established democracy, then it would not be long before Flavio would gain the upper hand. The technicalities still escaped him, he had been too unsettled and worried by the news of both the Second Players being in this world and the coups and attacks that were happening all over the world.

It was by a stroke of luck that he had not been at home when this had happened. He had been starting to cook lunch, but had only at the last minute realised that they were out of pasta. He had been told only too many times that he spoke about food too much, that no-one cared about that, and he should focus on current affairs and what would be tomorrow's politics rather than what would be tonight's dinner. But, this time, it had perhaps saved his life. Yet now, he had no clue where his brother was, and having lost his phone somewhere - he could not remember at what point he had noticed it missing - he could not attempt calling him. And he could try to ensure his people would remain loyal. He could try to get some sense into them. He had done it before, why not now?

But he had to set to work immediately - arrest warrants for the two Second Players, declare his brother a missing person, and start figuring out a way to get to his people - reach out to them, make them see sense, hope to hell and back that they would listen.

* * *

Ivan disassembled and assembled the weapon over and over again, starting over every time the stupid clock beeped.

At the moment, he was on his tenth attempt, and he was getting more and more frustrated with every second that passed. He was so close, so goddamn clo-

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

_"Черт возьми!"  
_

Ivan groaned in annoyance, once more being so close. He turned off the beeping clock. He knew he could disassemble a gun in fifteen seconds - that was the easy part. He also knew he could assemble it again in less than thirty. That's where he failed. At one point, during the 1970s perhaps, his record had been 34.6 seconds. In total. It seemed he was a bit rusty, a fact that did not give him much of a sense of security when he knew his counterpart might come any second pounding at his door and pointing a gun at his face. He knew that Dmitri would have no qualms against shooting him other than the fact that it would ensure both their deaths. And he could also guess that his rather mellow Second Player (after all, they were their opposites, and while Ivan had a heart but was also very violent, his counterpart basically lacked a heart but was more of a pacifist) had no problems in beating his gun assembling record. And if this went to war, then he sure as hell would have to keep the time much less than a minute. He decided to take a break, as he knew that his boss might need some help with handling the rioting countryside. He also had ignored his phone for a while, which meant he probably had a ton of unanswered messages.

As he thought about it, it had been a while since he had heard anything from Alfred. He wasn't quite sure what they were to each other at the moment. They had fucked, yes. But there was the underlying feeling that it was more than just having sex, that it was something deeper. They were no longer enemies. They had never been exactly friends. They were absolutely not in love, as they barely liked each other enough to be able to stand the other for more than a few days at a time. Although...

Never mind.

But it was rather disconcerting that he had heard zit from the American for something akin to a week. Usually, the loud-mouthed and obnoxious nation would message him if only to brag or make a stupid joke. Since the world meeting, there had been some texts that were neither here nor there, usually what Alfred called "the most awesome pick up lines" and what Ivan called "American silliness". But now, there had been nothing for a while. As Ivan checked his phone, there were a few messages from his boss and other Ministers. But none from Alfred. On the other hand, there were a number from both his sisters, from Natalya who was checking that he was fine - a message he had received perhaps at least once a day since the mess started - and from Yekaterina who had heard some worrying rumours and was checking that they were not true.

He answered them both first, stating he was fine and that the riots were nothing he couldn't handle. Of course, all of that was a lie. He was not fine, he was in over his head with both paperwork and decision-making, and handling the increasing violence within his country. Rare were the days when he did not feel his head swim with the conflicted thoughts of his people, when his heart did not clench in hatred towards his government, when he was able to get out of bed without feeling his waning strength. He knew Dmitri was gaining fast on him. And he was assembling something of an army around the major cities, especially Moscow, so as to create a siege of sorts on the capital. Ivan's army and police had already been placed on high alert and posted to key points in major cities, and assigned to protect certain vital areas. Train tracks were under high surveillance, and agricultural precautions were being taken. The country was basically in a lock-down.

But he still said he was fine, because he would not let his sisters worry about him when they had their own countries to worry about. He really would try to send armed help to Natalya, if he could. And even though the Ukrainian President still distrusted Ivan and his boss, he would help Yekaterina as much as possible. If only he could. But with all his strength, his mind, and money tied up in his own country, he couldn't. He was scared of losing both of them, and not a day went by when he was terrified of whether or not their Second Players might take over the country, take them hostage, attack the country from within, kill them... But he could do nothing to help. He had been sealed into his own country every since finding out from Alfred, and... well, there really wasn't much he could do but build and rebuild his gun or sign another piece of urgent paperwork.

Things were so different nowadays. It was strange, how times had changed so much since he had first come to be. He remembered always being the first one at the front during intense and bloody battles. He remembered arguing with his leaders, who wished for him to go, yet he wanted to remain back home. He remembered taking part in the planning of nearly every major military strategy and plan. Remembered confronting nations face-to-face, sword in hand, ready to slice their skin until they bled out. And yet, for the last fifty years or so, he could not name the last time he had been the first to know or plan anything. He could not point to a day when he had been the first to act or react. He could not pinpoint the last time he had held a gun to a nation. It had probably been the Second World War, to be honest. When nations were still in the old-fashioned way of taking up arms. When war had been direct. Not fought through air control, or coded radio messages, or second-guessing the opponent's moves before the enemy himself knew what he was going to do. Not fought by information. Or weapons of mass destruction.

But these days, it really was rare that he would be the first one to anything. His boss let him know if something important came up. His ministers would maybe run something past him when it had already been agreed upon and accepted. Politicians would smile politely at him, not really knowing who he was, not really caring, either.

He-

_Ding._

Surprised, he looked down at his phone, taken out of his inner musings back into the real world by the electric sound. He looked to see a surprising message on the screen. It was an e-mail.

_[American Idiot, Today, 17:55]_

_Hey, I know it's been a while since I've messaged you - but that's a long story and it ends with Allen fucking up the west coast. Let me get the formalities out of the way - yeah, I'm as fine as I can be, how are you? Not great, probably, seeing the news._

_I had an idea - that's why I'm emailing you. My boss ain't telling me nothing, and I'm guessing neither is yours, so I suggest we take matters into our own hands. I'm currently in Canada, and Mattie's with me with the idea. We need to do something to call out to the people of our countries - even the world - before any more nations fall into 2P hands or die._

_We need to talk to the people. Address them. Ourselves. The nations themselves. We need to directly appeal to them, make them understand what the hell is going on. Because the main reason why this is happening in the first place is because people are fed up with their government who tell them nothing! I'm not told anything so why would they be? I mean my government has indirectly distrusted my people for years upon years, and it's time that ended right about now. So all I'm saying is - tomorrow, at about noon or something - a time when everyone is awake, and likely to have a screen in front of them, we give speeches. Disguised as mere press conferences or a politician answering questions or whatever you come up with to get it approved by your boss. Use false names, I don't care, but we need this._

_Main points I suggest to put in that speech - who you are, what you are, why you are making this speech, what is going on, who the second players are, why they're so pissed off, ... main points of this crappy situation and all that. Make them trust you. Help them understand. Show them that you care only about them - don't make references to the government, to be honest, that would probably only work against you._

_But yeah. I've sent this idea to Yao, Arthur, Francis, Ludwig, Matthew (yeah, okay so I'm staying at his and I emailed him - ignore that)_ _and Feliciano, and you of course. So far, I've gotten positive answers only from Ludwig, Francis and Matt. Feliciano hasn't answered, Arthur's probably busy, I don't know what Antonio's doing and - oh, Yao answered, and he said he can try but that he's not sure. Please, please, please, Ivan, you're the nation of Russia - you could probably scare your people into believing you. I just need your support here._

_Trying is all I ask._

_Alfred._

_P.S. This has got to be just about my best idea to this day._

Ivan chuckled softly at the postscript. "Yes, Alfred, indeed it must be. You never cease to amaze the world." While many dismissed the American superpower as young and childish and ridiculous and obnoxious - and all things between, he had always known that there was something more to Alfred. And his status of superpower was proof of that. He immediately wrote an answer back, agreeing to try his best.

Knowing himself, he would probably succeed - if it meant scaring his boss into doing it.

* * *

As Gilbert messed about in the office, Ludwig sat at his computer, trying to come up with something to write. He tapped at the keys without a real thought in his mind, before backtracking the entire sentence and ending up with a blank page once more. To be fair, Gilbert was not helping.

"West, what the hell do you think you're doing? The Second Players are running around trying to undermine us, the Bundestag fucking exploded, and there you are, sitting at your computer, writing! Do you think fucking paperwork is going to scare them? Some legal documents are gonna drive them away and leave us alone? NO, they're not! We need to get the fuck ready, the army out, everyone out, everyone with weapons to protect our people! We-"

"Gilbert?"

" _Was?_ "

"Shut up."

"I'm your older-"

"And I am the current representation of the nation of Germany, and I am trying to work out something that might save us from this situation by improving our people's image of us. I'm trying to write a speech that will rally our people with us, that will save our nation from ruin, that the people will listen to and hear and think about - that will affect them enough so that  _they won't join Lutz and Klutz!_ "

"Lutz and who?"

"Stupid nicknames that Francis came up with."

Gilbert burst out laughing. "Damn, those are good. No, but really, what is this speech thing? When is it, who are you gonna give it to?"

Ludwig sighed, basically abandoning the thought of getting anything done for the moment. "Alfred had an idea - if we address our people ourselves, we might have a chance to draw them to our side. To keep them loyal."

"But how would we-?"

"By revealing ourselves."

Gilbert did a double-take. "By what?"

"You heard me, Gilbert. Alfred's idea, but I must say that it's not completely hopeless. It really is our last chance before nearly every country in the world will end up divided in a civil war of sorts, their people divided, weapons fired to both sides. And this speech is tomorrow, in front of most of the press of Germany. At noon."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "So, for centuries - millennia - we've kept ourselves a secret, and then in a minute a youngster has a stupid idea and then we're out for the entire world to see and judge?  _Mein Gott,_ youth these days."

"Gilbert," Ludwig groaned. He loathed it when Gilbert went into his 'I am older and more knowing than you' mode. He wasn't even sure whether the fact that Gilbert had more scars than Ludwig meant that any of them had taught the Prussian anything. To be honest, probably little. "I am doing this, and if you will not help, then get out, please."

Gilbert sighed melodramatically. "Fine, I will help, but if only not to let you slip in some stupid state secrets."

It was Gilbert whose suggestions for the speech contained most state secrets. It was Ludwig who dismissed the suggestions faster than they had been finished.

* * *

Since receiving the e-mail from the North American nation, Francis had made phone call after phone call. Needless to say, he was a very well-connected person, even amongst nations. He knew half the most influential press editors and directors personally, and the rest indirectly. He knew some influential people who could make things happen faster than he could say "thanks". He had good access to the inner rings in the world of both publicity and television, meaning he had soon acquired TF1, France 2 through 5, and Canal+ to televise the speech he would give in little more than half a day. He had also managed to obtain quite a few radio stations across the country. And a number of websites had agreed to announce this speech as an important speech that any self-respected French person would listen to (not exactly in those words, but basically that was the message). All he needed to do now was announce to his leader that he would, in fact, be indisposed to all politics for the first half of the following day, and that there was going to be something he might want to listen to on the radio.

He checked his phone before walking into his boss' office.  _"Monsieur le Président, il faut que-_ "

"What is it now?"

"Well, just that tomorrow you should not expect me in the office before sometime after one or two - well, after lunch time, anyway."

"And why, may I ask?"

"Yes, you may ask, but the answer you shall see tomorrow. I suggest you listen very carefully to TF1 tomorrow at around noon. I heard there's going to be an interesting... show." Francis smiled innocently, his leader giving him a befuddled and confused look.

"And what is that show abo-"

"Ah, that, I cannot tell you. Apparently, though, it's unprecedented and never heard of, completely unique!" Francis began leaving the office before turning back. "And er... You might receive a few phone calls, namely from the Russian and Chinese leaders, along with perhaps certain others, and some confused people from my country, but ignore them, and do not come looking for me. That's all!"

Francis left the office, and went to get a good night's sleep. After all, if he was to be on national television tomorrow, then he must look his best - or the best he could in this situation.

* * *

Arthur tried, for about the five hundredth time, to call someone. After calling his boss and receiving no answer - no connection even - he had tried to call Francis, Ludwig, everyone (even going so far as to call Gilbert). It was now, when his phone once more did not even react that he decided to check (which he should have done some time ago) his network.

Nothing. No bars, no network, no connection, nothing.

And that sent him into worry. Was this simply a problem with his phone? Or more widespread? Were phone lines cut? What about landlines? What had happened? How had this happened?

He hurried to his car, and drove all the way to Downing Street, bursting inside as people flurried about, walking around him and dodging him as he tried to find someone who could answer his questions. Namely, his boss. Computers were still working, and so were televisions, so his speech was not yet compromised. But he had a feeling that it might not be long before all electricity would somehow be cut. He went into his Premier's office, and saw him sitting at his desk, writing away on a document.

"Could you perhaps- oh, Arthur, it's you. What on earth are you doing here at this moment? Did someone call you?"

"I really doubt anyone could call me right now, what with telephone connections apparently having been cut."

"Christ, yes, I forgot."

"Do you have any clue -"

"Do I look like I would have a clue? Arthur, I am just as lost - if not more so - as you are in this situation. To be fair, I was not really expecting this when I stepped up to take office, and I really doubt I have more experience than you in this situation. I do not know who did this, why this happened, how we can fix this, but I doubt that it'll end at only telephone lines."

"We have to secure television or radios. Either or, I don't really care which, but it is vital that some sort of information network is maintained."

"I understand, and I have people on it, but I cannot - as can't you - guarantee that this will be the case."

Arthur sighed. He knew, he knew that they were royally screwed the moment he had gone up into the attic that day a month ago. Or had it been more? He wasn't really sure how long it had been, to be honest. But it had been long enough for half of the world to fall into chaos, and the rest of the world dangerously teetering on the edge.

And that was when the entire house went suddenly silent - no telephones ringing, no televisions making background noise, no radios blabbing on and on about something, nothing. People were still talking, but it was that hushed wonder that preceded complete panic.

And panic was what ensued, after a staff member burst into the Prime Minister's office with a notice from the Scots.

* * *

Since Alfred had deserted the house, Matthew had a feeling something was extremely off with his country. He had a feeling of unrest in the pit of his stomach, an uncomfortable sense of dread. He had tried to make himself busy by calling people and writing the speech - and he had also managed to convince his boss that this was the best way to try and be safe from the threat that was in his country right now. He had not heard anything terribly shocking from his country yet, and he had a terrible feeling that this was the calm before the storm. Matthieu had not shown up in name, description, videos, images, news, nothing, and no real violence had yet occurred.

His people were almost just as uneasy as in every other country of the world - before the fateful world meeting. They were protesting and demanding change, but with marches and protests, not with guns or blood. No major violence had yet been reported despite the occasional clashes between protesters and riot police, but nothing so far that was at any rate alarming.

He was currently driving to Parliament Hill, where he was expecting his boss to be and where he could take care of some business before airing in some hours. He could also turn on the news and watch live feed from Alfred's speech, which was in about half an hour. He saw nothing out of the ordinary on the way, and the ride to the government offices was perfectly normal.

As he entered, and reached his office, the feeling in his gut had somewhat let up, but there was still the feeling that something was going to happen - and not in any kind of good way. He greeted diplomats and other staff, asking for the whereabouts of his Prime Minister - who had yet to arrive. He had called to say he would arrive somewhat late - Matthew didn't quite catch what the person said the reason to be.

He directed himself into his office, leaving the door open with the request that he be given any piece of work he had to attend to urgently immediately. He turned on the television, and saw the reporter going over the speeches that had been occurring around the world while he was still asleep.

He also heard snippets of what had occurred in every country after the speeches. He paused in his work, eyes glued to the television as he listened intently. People came in and out of his office, and he tried to deal with all of the work while simultaneously trying to grasp the severity of the words pouring out of the reporter's mouth.

But there came a point when his stomach felt like it had sunk, unexpectedly, and he felt ill, lost and confused. He had no idea what had brought this about, until he was on the way out of his office and into the restrooms to wash his face with cold water. Suddenly, phones were ringing all around him, and he heard shouts and gasps and panic spreading throughout the staff working on the floor he was on. He heard bits and pieces of the conversations thrown about, but not before he grabbed someone and demanded he be told what was going on did he know what had happened. The Prime Minister had been assassinated.

And at that moment, Matthew seemed to understand what kind of a hell the world had been thrown into.

* * *

"Good afternoon."

His voice resonated, a hollow resounding of his words bouncing around the room into his ears. Or maybe that was just his heartbeat. He cleared his throat, the sound irritating as it was magnified by the microphone.

"This message that I am about to convey is one for all of the people of the United States. In fact, it is a message for all of the world, whoever may be listening. Whoever is viewing this broadcast - this message is for you. Children, teenager, adult, American, European, Asian, African, man or woman - I want this message to reach as many people as possible."

Through the dozen of cameras trained on him, the microphones standing in front of him, he could feel the eyes of his people on him, could feel the listening minds of them. The small audience of press reporters and other people present did not really help. Intent and focused on him, only him, at this precise moment in time. And it freaked him out.

"You may - and rightfully so - wonder who the hell I am. And I don't blame you, because I have never been formally introduced, and it was unlikely that I was ever going to be. However, due to the dire circumstances... Well, this was the last option. First, all I want for you is to consider this. Do I seem familiar to you? Do you perhaps feel like you know me, perhaps have passingly met me, but never really cared to remember me, or learn my name? Do you find me recognisable, yet unplaceable? Ask your family members, friends, everyone around you, because the answer you will get from every citizen of this country will be the same. Yes, you seem to know me from somewhere, yet you do not know where. That is really the first step towards understanding who I am. But honestly, I'll just cut to the chase, and so, here goes - my name is Alfred Fitzgerald Jones. I was born in May 1607, when Jamestown, the first settlement of this country, was founded. I am, officially, the personification representing the nation of the United States of America. If you happened to have turned on the television earlier to hear about similar speeches from different parts of the world - from a man named Wang Yao, or Ivan Braginsky, Francis Bonnefoy, Matthew Williams - then you will understand that they were, too, nations as I am.

"Believe me, I know this sounds ridiculous, and crazy, and completely stupid - maybe a prank being played on the people of the world. But ask yourselves - we are in a state of war. Why the hell would governments and television stations around the world allow a prank of this scale to happen? Of course they wouldn't, and after this speech is over, the President of the United States will step up here, and swear in front of you all that this is the truth, nothing more, nothing less. No doubt, he will be pretty mad at me, considering I may have gone around him to get this done.

"And I will accept questions from those of you present here right now, answer them without hesitation, if only to help you believe me. But just know - if you look at me, can you really say that I do not cause some feelings, in all of you, that you cannot explain were they directed at a complete nobody playing a prank on you? Do you feel perhaps a sense of patriotism or pride? Happiness? Safety? Anger, or fear? Something, anything that would really be completely non-explainable were I not your nation?"

He took a breath before switching pages.

"But that was only the first part of this speech. If you can grasp that idea of me being the representative of your country, that I, Alfred F. Jones, who looks barely old enough to have a beer, am your hundreds of years old nation - then I ask you to hold on to that thought and prepare for something even more... ah... messed up.

"Every nation has a kind of... double. An alternate self - a physical opposite. This opposite is also a personification, who was born at the same time that we were 'born', for lack of a better word. And they live in an alternate universe - by the way, physicists, you're welcome, 'cause I just proved the multiverse theory. But back to the topic at hand. These opposites, alternative selves, live in an alternate universe, from which it is possible to establish a connection to this one. However, as these personifications are our opposites, so is their world. While our world holds justice and democracy - relatively widespread - and peace, theirs does not. Theirs is a world of crime, of lawlessness, of violence... And we have tried our best to seal these cracks in the walls between universes. However, every time we have managed to seal them back into their universe, they have found ways back - because connections between universes cannot in any way be completely sealed off and destroyed. Which means that these portals exist and will, in some way, be possibly reopened. And this time, we were unprepared. We were not ready, because it has been so, so long since they last were here that they were no threat in our minds. So, they managed to sneak past our noses into this universe.

"Right now, the extreme anarchist movement that has arisen in and taken over Washington, Oregon, California, Idaho, Nevada and Utah, which is threatening Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Montana and Wyoming, is one that was started by my own alternate self. His name is Allen F. Jones. His physique would be something akin to mine, but his skin darker, his hair an auburn colour, his eyes red. His aims, as his friends', are to bring into our world the characteristics of theirs. They wish to drive our world into a similar state to their own. There is this natural hatred, between us and them, that will drive them to do this. We, as nations, are more peaceful than them, which is why we have not destroyed their world. Additionally, theirs is tied with our own so tightly, that it would simultaneously destroy ours."

_Lay yourself bare._

"The reason why I need to appeal to you, citizens of the United States, citizens of the Earth, is because without you, I will die. A nation can only exist as long as its people still hold faith in them. As long as its people will live for them. As long as people hold its citizenship - unless that nation is killed in battle."

"The technicalities are rather complex, and to be honest, I don't know them completely myself. However, I do know that a nation like me is basically immortal. If you were to shoot me, right now, I would heal in a matter of minutes. However, the only exception to this is when a nation is at war with another. Then, if one of the fighting nations injures the other nation in such a manner that would kill a human, the nation is effectively killed. But our alternate selves aren't like that. They are not immortal- they can live forever, yes, but injuring them mortally - even caused by humans - will kill them. Similarly, if their corresponding nation dies, so do they. They depend on us but not vice versa. But these positions can be changed. If the alternate beings came to this world, and gained more than half of a country's people's support, they would effectively then become the official representative of the nation. And that is what is happening right now, everywhere in the world. Allen Jones is trying to weaken the United States of America so that he will be able to kill me once he is the representative and I am dependent on him. And I don't want to die. I don't want to see this nation fall to ruins under a man who wants nothing but its downfall. Who wants to destroy civilisation. Society. Humanity. He will wipe all of that out if he gains your support. And that, that is the reason why I am here today.

"I am not asking, not requesting, not demanding or ordering - I am begging. Begging you not to fall for his promises of a brighter future. Pleading that you do not abandon me. I may not have been the best of nations, but I remember a time when people fought alongside of me for my independence. When we fought as brothers during wars that raged across Europe and the world. How we stood united against threat, after threat, after threat. Yes, I was riddled with such paranoia at certain points, but I represent my people. And one thing that I can say about the American people is that not once have they lost that faith, strength of belief in unity. And that is what I am appealing to today."

He took a deep breath, about to launch into the final bit of the speech. He looked up quickly to the small audience, and stopped. He saw the tall figure, leaning casually against the wall with a grin on his face. Blue eyes met red, and he inhaled sharply. He decided to continue with his speech - while something (he wasn't quite sure) chipped at his mind.

"He... Allen Jones is dangerous. And in order to secure this nation's future - this world's future as a whole planet and not a wasteland of - of forgotten cities and nuclear devastation, we have to be able to count on each other, we have to stand together. We cannot help other nations, nor can they help us, before we have helped ourselves. But if the American people can once again come together, as we have dozens of time in the past, then we can save ourselves from what would be complete destruction."

He suddenly felt something breaking in his mind, as if something that he had locked away had just broken down a door - reality was not too far from that. And then, there was the intruding voice.

_**What a lovely speech that was, Alfred. Congrats on a pitiful attempt at rallying your people against mine.** _

He fought down the urge - the need to walk up to his Second Player and punch the living daylights out of him in front of the television and radio of his entire country. But something was wrong - very much wrong.

He hurriedly gave a weak thank you to the audience and cameras and microphones, before stepping away from the podium - trying to calm himself, keep his composure in the presence of the very man that was the cause of his troubles.

_**What, not even going to acknowledge me?** _

Alfred narrowed his eyes infinitesimally in the direction of his counterpart, something no-one else would probably notice now that he was in the background, while the President had only now stepped up to report that he had not known this would happen, he apologised for the confusion, but that every word that Alfred had said was true.

**_I get it, you're trying to figure out why I'm in your head!_ **

_There's a hell of a lot I'm wondering about,_ Alfred thought.

_**You do realise I can read your thoughts, right?** _

Alfred went silent - even in his mind. Too stunned, shocked, to really contribute a thought into this.

**_D'you really not remember what happened last time? When we spoke for days on end, taunting each other, trying to figure out the other's moves - before Kirkland locked us away?_ **

Alfred's mind was a flurry of memories and recollections, trying to locate that memory, his thoughts flooding with questions and images. And there it was.

**_Fucking slow you are. Hell, they say you're kind of slow, sometimes, but damn, ya gotta be kidding me. With that memory I'm amazed you're even able to put on socks in the morning._ **

_What the hell are you doing here?_ Alfred tried to keep a straight face, not let hatred show on his features as he still stood in the line of fire of the cameras.

**_I'm here to damn well piss the hell out of ya, that's what I'm doing._ **

_Get the fuck out of here, now._

**_Or what, you're going to arrest me? You realise that I have a couple of your states held hostage back in the West, right? What would ya do if something happened to dear old Callie? Or if something hurt Wendy? Or if Noah was killed? Or all them others. you'd end up damn hurt, wouldn't you?_ **

_Don't you fucking dare-!_

**_I will, if anything happens to me. So how about me and you go nice and quiet into an empty room and have a nice little talk in there. Sound like a plan to ya?_ **

Alfred hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The President was nearly done speaking, and the entire ordeal would soon be wrapped up. He held back an answer, but when the President bode the nation his wishes for unity, and ended the speech, Alfred was amongst the first to stand up and leave the room without further justification. He heard his boss call out after him, but ignored it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Allen also duck out of the room. Once in the corridor, he turned right, and went directly to his office. He waited with the door open for the arrival of Allen. Once he did, he wordlessly bolted the door shut and locked.

"What the hell do you want?" Alfred spat at the red-haired 'nation'. He went behind his desk and sat down, assuming a position of power and calm here. Not that ALlen seemed too stressed either.

"Thought that woulda been kind of obvious by now. Just wanted to annoy you." As Alfred did not respond to this Allen sighed dramatically and slouched into one of the available chairs on the other side of the desk. "Damn, you're demanding. Just wanted to have a little chat with ya, that's all. Tell me, how's Ivan doin'? Ya heard anything from him?"

"What do you know?" Alfred straightened up in his chair.

"Just that your little idea may not have helped as much as you would have wanted. What I mean, is that while you were busy being cut off from the world enough not to really listen to other news, stuff happened, and now you kind of find yourself alone, here. For example, the fact that y'all were giving speeches meant that you were occupied for the last twenty-something hours calling and writing."

Alfred really did not like where this was going, even though he had no idea what was to be said. There was a momentary pause, as Allen played with time and paused for effect.

"Which meant that you weren't so occupied by domestic business or listening to your bosses." Alfred's eyebrows furrowed, as he waited for Allen to continue.

"Which means that if you checked the news, you'd probably know that China has lost control of its western areas - kinda like here, yeah? Or that Russia was thrown into a civil war this morning right after the speech finished, with the army fighting off its own people - especially more to the east and in villages. Where people are now armed to the teeth, thanks to Dmitri's contacts and smuggling skills. Or that Scotland has declared war on England, and that as soon as the British government is dismantled Oliver will assume power and place a warrant of arrest on Arthur's head. Oh, he never got to do his speech. And that Germany is now divided between loyalists and... what do they call themselves? Something like revolutionaries or anarchists or whatever, who cares. France - who the hell knows or cares what's going on there. I think Southern Italy's completely thrown off track. Canada,... well, dear old Mattie's gonna be giving his speech just about now, and who knows what my buddy up north has planned."

And during all of this rush of information, Allen was uninterrupted, a feral grin growing on his features as Alfred's eyes widened, his hand beginning to shake - stress, fear, panic, neither of them were able to distinguish the emotions running through Alfred's head.

Alfred then stood, went to the telephone that was sitting on the table. Which Allen promptly knocked over and stepped on to make certain no calls would be made from it. Alfred froze.

"Get the fuck out of here," he hissed at the other. His steel-grey eyes had frozen over, a harsh look glazing over them.

"Nah," was the simple answer he received. And it was just too much for him. Forgetting calm and composure, he lunged at the other who had been expecting it. They were both knocked to the ground, Alfred on top of Allen as he attempted to land as many punches as he could on the Second Player. It wasn't long before Allen managed to knock him in the jaw, not hard enough to dislocate it, but enough so to weaken Alfred's hold on him momentarily - enough for him to roll them over and to stand up. Alfred was quick to get back on his feet, and dodge an outstretched arm thrown his way. He threw himself forwards, managing to throw Allen off balance and collide with the heavy desk. Alfred could feel he wasn't quite as strong as he could have been, and knew that Allen was a lot more powerful than he should have been. He took a hold of Allen's left arm, twisting it behind his back - earning a pained snarl sent his way. But this didn't last long as Allen aimed a harsh kick to his calf, and then freeing his arm and elbowing the other in the gut. Alfred found his grip release, and himself being thrown against a wall harshly. Slightly dazed from the impact, it took him a moment to notice Allen had grabbed a wooden chair and was about to hurl it straight at him. He managed to dodge it - only barely, splinters grazing his back. He grabbed one of the broken legs of the chair, using it as a pathetic weapon. He tried to stab Allen, missed, but managed to stop and land a punch into his chest. Allen coughed, but grabbed Alfred into a chokehold which had the American struggling to free himself. Alfred knew there was a wall some distance behind Allen, and began using all his strength to back up and slam Allen into the wall. It freed him, but Allen aimed another kick at his gut this time. Alfred doubled over, and was knocked down by Allen swinging a piece of wood at his head. He found himself on the floor, and with a gun pointed at him.  _His_ gun.

"Now, as nice as this little chat we had was, I gotta run. This nation ain't gonna ruin itself on its own." He sent a malevolent smirk Alfred's way, before pocketing the weapon and marching out of the trashed office. Alfred stood up, debating whether to run after Allen, but he felt his head protest at even the thought.

This really was not helping his fragile mental state. He could feel himself growing weaker, and there was a voice, a voice in the back of his mind that kept whispering and taunting him to give in.  _You could fix this, if you simply accepted that the world may never be the same. You could ensure nothing like this would ever happen again, after completely getting rid of this threat forever. You could kill the Second Players, all of them, if you simply accepted that this - the person you are pretending to be - this is not who you are._

The door to his office had been left open, and he saw some people stop and stare at the state of the ruined room. He snarled at them, which made them all go their own way. Except his boss, who had now barged into his office. Initially, he was only going to scold Alfred for the stunt he had pulled, but seeing the state of the office, and of the battered nation (who really was a sight with a split lip, blood running down the side of his face, and a bloodied suit), he wanted an explanation.

Especially when Alfred staggered up from the chair he had been in and hurriedly announced he needed to find a telephone and call his brother.

He could not be too late - he simply could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Черт возьми - (russian)damn it
> 
> was? - (german) what?
> 
> Notes
> 
> None this time :)


	11. Black Hole Sun

_"Bad things do happen in the world, like war, natural disasters, disease.  
_ _But out of those situations always arise stories of ordinary people doing extraordinary things."_  
\- Daryn Kagan

It was disaster that struck, a disaster none could fathom (before it was too late).

He could barely hold his thoughts together long enough to understand half of what he was being told, people talking to him from left and right while he tried to deal with everything the best he could. He could hear telephones ringing off the hook everywhere around him - the one in his office had been ringing continually since the moment he entered the room, and not once had it been answered by anyone. He had piles of papers on his desk, while people kept coming into his office to do one of many things. Whether it was to ask for advice, demand something that had to be done, giving a report about the progress of the situation or something else, they all needed him for something.

And despite being one of the eldest - if not the oldest - nation in the world, Yao still found himself as confused as a nation of a hundred years. The confusion of modern times still struck him sometimes, with the head-spinning speed of technology and communication and the efficiency of people, the destructiveness of weapons and the ease of healing. He still remembered the days when messages came by horsemen, who travelled hundreds, thousands of kilometres if to deliver only a small but well-written and carefully crafted message. Each one had a meaning, could have a number of meanings, gave all the necessary information in as much or little as necessary. Yet, today, it was not very rare for him to receive a message that was easily misunderstood, that had a great number of typos, from which half of the information was missing, and which could give little to no indication as to what it meant.

And that was exactly why right now, he felt at an utter loss of what to do. He didn't know where he should look nor whom he should answer nor what he should do, but he knew he should be doing multiple of these at the same time.

He had a feeling that before, everything had been slightly in their favour - that he had had the upper hand, if only slightly, if only for a moment. Except now, he knew that that was gone, their opportunity had expired, they had passed their chance. Of course, hindsight was always a very good judge... after the events. And now, well, hindsight was just a bitch bothering him when he should try to focus on the present.

So far, he had managed to post the army at the edge of the territory that had been lost to his counterpart. There had been no warning, no reason, no foreseeing that Xiao would attack the moment he was giving a speech to rally his people. This was getting out of hand - Yao honestly blamed all Hollywood movies for his overlooking reality.

It had been years, decades, since a war of this scale had arisen. He had a feeling this would be remembered as the war of worlds, the worst war of the planet - that is, if there were anyone remembering it any more. He had thought that a  _speech_  - that words were a good idea, that they could solve this problem. He had forgotten what he had learnt over thousands of years, over centuries and millennia: that while words could be a useful weapon and destroy a man internally, they could  _never_ kill anyone until his heart stopped beating and blood poured from his veins. He had always known that the only way to kill someone was by the blade, and this he had forgotten, a fact he had forlorn in favour of an idealistic and surreal view of the world in which words really were mightier than a sword.

It never worked that way.

In this world, peace was a default setting. Peace was what everyone wanted,what everyone knew. Peace was also what had settled the world into a deep slumber, a coma, a state of unconsciousness. And they had forgotten that another world existed, where peace was sneered and laughed at, where crimson was the only accepted colour, where death was a perfume.

And now he had to find it in himself to be cool-headed, to remember those teachings he had forgotten. To be the Empire he used to be.

He could only hope every other remaining nation could do what was required of them.

He stood, brushing past everyone who tried to ask him questions he could not answer, and made the decision that he would no longer sit back, behind a desk, go through all of the unnecessary bureaucracy required for every decision to be made, approved, vetoed, thought over, chatted about over coffee and tea. He was having none of that.

No, instead he would be the nation his people wanted, needed and expected. He would be the leader he should have been, that he could be, that he had been. He would take control of his own destiny, fate, karma - whatever you wanted to call it. And that started by getting himself a fucking weapon and military outfit and being the powerful nation he had always been.

He had a little statement to make to someone before that. Marching into the President's office, he looked the man dead in the eyes as he strode up to the desk.

"Mr. President. All due respect, but there is something I must point out to you."

The President looked up, then back to the paper he was reading. "Yes?"

"And I demand your  _undivided attention_."

The President sighed, then folded his hands on the papers as he looked back at Yao, who was staring intently at him.

"Yes?" The man prompted.

"You heard the speech I made yesterday-?"

"Yes, but I never approved it."

"Do not interrupt me. Well, if you did hear said speech, you must realise that now my people know who I am, and will probably follow me anywhere I go. The most patriotic and nationalist of them will stand by my side even if I walked straight over the edge of a cliff. And therefore, that means that  _I_  am the one who should be in control of this country. I am the one who the people will listen to. And I am taking that position, I am filling that role from now on. And you do not get to object, just sit and smile - you are not the nation, you are not the people, you no longer are the sole leader of this country." Yao straightened up. "Thank you, and have a good day."

The President looked silently stunned, and more than confused. Yao simply left the office. Even though he despised being so demanding or rude with any of his bosses, sometimes the situation demanded it. And this time, it had been far more than overdue.

He belonged in the streets, in the cities, amongst his people - with his people.

And that was exactly where he would be.

* * *

Down the hallway - down - was it right or left? Where was the exit? Right? He'd have to chance it - rubble, collapsed walls, stone everywhere, dust clawing at his throat as he hacked uncontrollably. There was a shout - was that his name? He didn't really register it if it were. Don't trip - don't trip don't trip  _do not trip_ watch out for the stone-!

" _Help!"_

Where did the cry come from? Desperate - pained, hurt, so desperate, confused (as was he, so, so confused), in need of help - help he couldn't give, where did it come from? Other shouts, more of them, just a bunch of garbled jargon, he couldn't hear it, were they calling him?

The ground shook - why was it shaking?  _Take a hold of something_ , he was falling, the floor - he found the floor, crashed down, too hard, was something broken? Maybe - he couldn't see, couldn't hear, didn't know  _why did he not know a thing?_ A stab in his leg, hard, was that his scream? Was it someone else?

_Stand up,_  but he couldn't - why couldn't he stand? A stone, his hands shot out and arms pulled his body upwards, hearing more shouts - they were louder, they were getting louder, maybe he could shout back to them, but he couldn't because his throat was ridden with dust and dry and it felt like it tore apart every time he tried to speak. Around -  _look around -_  what is there? Slippery, the floor was slippery, he tried to stand up - it worked this time, but his leg screamed in pain (or maybe that was him) but he still could stand and advance - he had to work through it he had to  _he had to_ but he couldn't, he couldn't because everything was too close but too far, he didn't know where the exit was, he didn't-!

A sound, someone calling his name, maybe, hopefully, it was an off-chance, it was a slim possibility -  _look around, look, is someone there -_  but how could he make himself known if his voice clawed at his throat every time he tried to speak? His chest hurt so much - was it his lungs or his heart?

What had happened? How had he ended up in this situation? What was going on? He couldn't remember, something must have happened - he tried to work through his memories, but his mind seemed to freeze, it seemed to block itself from remembering...

_People - voices, speaking and shouting and huffing and barking, some ordering and some questioning. Voices..._

He remembered being with people - where were they all now? What had happened, where had everyone gone? Everyone but that lonely cry for help, or that one shout of his name - where had it even come from? He tried to walk, it was painful - excruciating - but he had to keep going if he wanted to find someone, anyone, who could tell him what had happened-

_A terrified, panicking shout, every voice suddenly going silent - everyone but that one voice shouting above everyone else, the sound echoing around the room -_

What had been said? Voices, he remembered them, all the voices, male and female and - and - but who were they? Where had he been, where was he? What had been said that so many people suddenly went quiet as a grave?

_Attacks -_

He halted, his mind stumbling across the single word, that one word that brought everything crashing back, every memory flooding his otherwise thoughtless mind. All the people and the voices and the words and the places and the emotions and the thoughts washed over him like a tsunami, he couldn't hold them back once the dam had broken -

_"Attack! They're attacking! We're under attack, we're-!"_

_"... evacuate -"_

_"Who?"_

_"... We're late!"_

_"Aim?"_

_"... too late -"_

_"Headed towards -"_

_"Why?"_

_"Too fucking late!"_

_"Evac-"_

_"Find somewhere!"_

The building - it had - the entire building had been under attack - but what had become of the city? What was outside the building, the street, the city-? Was that why he was bleeding? What had become of London? How had they been too late, how had they not known, to seen this coming? They had been faced with a threat from the beginning and continued to blatantly be unprepared, never expecting anything, never in their lifetimes-

He tried to call out, his throat still straining and rasping as his voice tried to force itself out. Another call of his name - and he finally managed to make himself known-

He could hear shouts growing louder, could barely see anything - had the corridor collapsed in on itself? The lights were out, he didn't know, he couldn't see who was coming his way. He heard their calls better, he could hear them approaching - maybe five metres, maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less, he couldn't be sure -  _what could he be sure about? -_  and he waited, tried to walk as best he could, his leg threatening to give out beneath him.

"Mr. Kirkland! Sir - Christ, I need help with him - leg's busted-!"

Arthur tried to listen, he could feel someone grabbing him by the arm and helping him steady himself, holding him up. He let some of his weight fall off his other leg, leaning against the other person. Another person came, and they helped to half-drag, half-carry him through the rubble. When they reached something that had once been a door and an exit, the too-bright light of the sun assaulted his eyes and blinded him momentarily - he could see shadows and silhouettes moving in the white light, and they gradually became clearer, but he still did not recognise anyone.

"We need help here! Kirkland - his leg, he was walking on it, I don't know how -... lost a lot of blood-"

"He's a nation -"

"Doesn't mean he can't die!"

"Is that-?"

"London under attack... what do you think?!"

He could feel the pain spreading - his leg, his chest, his head and his eyes and his throat and he wasn't really sure how long he could hold himself up any more, but he tried his best -

"Mr. Kirkland, we're going to get you to a hospital," someone said, a voice too clear and too loud, his head hurt, throbbed, pounded, it was painful-

_Slipping, falling - he could feel the brightness dimming-_

"Mr. Kirkland?"

_Dimming-_

"Sir!"

He tried to stir, but it felt so enticing, so calming - he was  _slipping downwards into unconsciousness -_ was he dying?

"No, sir, you are not, I need to to try to stay awake!"

He couldn't - it just felt so safe and warm and -

"Into the ambulance, quickly! Hurry and get him under care as fast as possible! He can  _not_ die!"

The sounds became softer and the blinding light began dimming and he felt so calm-

* * *

"The media has gone haywire!"

"I know that-"

"All over the world!"

"Yes-"

"Did you even think of the consequences?!"

"Of cour-"

"No, you did not! None of you did!"

"All due-"

"Do not test me - you lot have made a mess enough of this already, I swear, how am I supposed to deal with this?!"

"I would gla-"

"The people are demanding answers! Questions that need to be addressed! You're lucky no-one has tried to kill you yet!"

"Could you ple-"

"And now we are awaiting the appearance of your so-called evil counterpart who  _no-one knows where or who they are!_ "

"If you'd just l-"

"What do you suppose I do from here?!"

" _Excuse me!_ " Matthew snapped, loudly for the usually passive tone he adopted. He did not particularly like raising his voice, that was his Southern brother's signature more than his. However, when he was being so blatantly ignored (even when he was most certainly  _not_ trying to blend in, as he usually did during meetings), he saw fit to take measures he otherwise dislike. And in this case it was to raise his voice at the person who was temporarily in charge of the country.

Keyword being temporarily. Matthew would see to it that this man would not get another day in office after this whole mess was cleared. If he was this kind of a mess because of a couple of media issues and some social media questions, then what the hell was he going to do in the face of an actual threat?

The man had paused mid-rant, and seemed awaiting something.

Right. Matthew had yelled " _excuse me_ " as if to start a sentence.

"I  _know_ that those speeches were bound to stir up some unrest and response from the people, but that is exactly what it was meant to do! If you did not perhaps realise, the Prime Minister died yesterday, and it was a miracle I even got to give the goddamned speech. It was an appeal to the people, and if it got them talking, that's for the better! We need as many people on our side as we can, seeing as otherwise you'll end up with a psychopathic, blood-lustful lumberjack as a nation! DO you really want that?"

The other man did not respond.

"Exactly. And the way to do that? Get the people moving! Trust me, I might look young to you, but if you didn't know I've lived a  _bit_ longer than you. Just a little bit, you know, enough to know what might work and what might not. So, for fuck's sake, will you please let me do the job that I have been doing since way, way, before your family even came to Canada! I'm trying to work on it, I'm trying to find the bastard, but you," he took a step forward. "Are." Another step forward. " _Not."_  Another step."Helping." He was in front of the other man, and what with Matthew being taller than even Alfred, he looked down slightly on the man, enough to get his point across.

The other coughed. "Ah, yes, uh, fine. Do - yes, do what you want. I'll - er - stay out of your way."

Matthew smiled, satisfied. Sometimes it was useful not to be the stereotypical Canadian "nice guy". "Good. If you don't mind, I'm gonna go outside for a bit and see what I can find."

Halfway out the door, he turned back to his current leader. "I'd prefer it if you didn't send the CSIS (1) running behind me, it might distract me. And to be honest, they're not going to help me find him." He paused. "Please," he added with a smile, before vanishing out the door.

* * *

"Why hasn't he broken yet?!"

"Well, he's a nation-"

"So am I!"

"We don't know-"

"Well you should start knowing, and soon, because my patient sure as fuck isn't as good as his pain tolerance!"

"What would you-"

"Okay, see, let me tell you what I would like. I would like to know where his support comes from. Where the people who still stand behind him are. Why half of the country isn't on our side, especially after the crappy couple of years they've had!"

"Mr. Hond-"

"Don't fucking call me that," the man snapped. "Oh, and last thing - I want all those people  _dead_."

"Sir, that's not an easy task, it will take quite a while-"

"Guess what?  _I suggest you start working then!_ " Kuro snapped, his patience wearing thin on all ends. With humans, with Kiku, with himself.

" _はい,_ " the man said and left the room.

Although, at the moment, he wagered he was the one doing best out of all the alternate nations who had been key to planning this attack. He had heard Allen was wreaking havoc in West USA, but not nearly enough to claim nationship. Oliver had done some impressing damage in London today, which was to be respected. Dmitri... who the hell knew what he was doing, collecting people on the outskirts of main cities and turning them against Moscow (something like that). Matthieu, Xiao, and Francois had not yet been seen in public. Lutz's plan was to go into action today. Luciano and Flavio had apparently capture Lovino, but he knew nothing else about that.

He had time to break Kiku. He would break. They all had time - something their counterparts did not have.

* * *

"Hey, West?"

The other gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Does this remind you of something?"

Ludwig looked curiously at his brother, who was holding a shotgun in one hand and a handgun in the other. Neither of them went anywhere without at least one (usually two) guns under hand. People had taken to streets, and though the police and army were doing their best it was nearly impossible to contain. They were protesting either against what was called the "New Revolution" or the old government. The people were divided, standing on opposite sides of a spectrum whose middle was blurred out, non-existent. Everyone had grown an opinion, taken a stance, or was probably dead - either called a "sympathizer of old" or an "anarchist of death". There were many more nicknames and labels by which each side was known, and Ludwig hadn't heard half of them. Right now, he could hear outside the sounds of some commotion stirring up, decided on checking out what it was about. If it was another protest, he could just return - he couldn't do much on his own, but it might be something else. He wanted to verify it.

"What do you mean?" He asked, confusion edging on his voice. He was currently checking the state of his own gun, which seemed to be fine.

Ever since the Reichstag building had collapsed, the government had been considered gone. Any authority was dismissed. Its position shattered, because the revolutionists did not want to abide to it, so they most certainly did not. It was like being projected into a complete alternate world, a dystopia where there was no rule or order, it was a matter of killing or being killed.

"Having the country divided and nearly up in arms against itself."

Ludwig sighed. That had been over for nearly three quarters of a century, his brother still liked to remind him of that. He also liked to piss Ivan off with it. The Prussian was not very fond of the colder nation.

"Gilbert,  _bitte,_ can you focus on what we're trying to do, now? Surviving? And not reminiscing times that really are far gone?"

"Jeez," Gilbert said as he rolled his eyes. "I'm just trying to get your mind off this for a minute. Lud, I hate to admit it, but you're over working yourself."

"You always tell me tha-"

"As I said, you need to clear your mind, and chill for a minute. Because it isn't gonna help anyone if their country's a nervous wreck who's been tense for ages."

Ludwig let his shoulders relax slightly. "Gilbert, we really need to-"

"I know, get to the other side of the street safe, and then the next one, and the next one, and blow Lutz and Klutz's heads off if they come anywhere near us." Gilbert placed the shotgun against the wall for a moment. "But how about we worry about one street at a time, hm?"

"Gilbert-"

"Damn it, West, if you keep doing this you're going to be useless by the end of it! Listen here, kiddo - I've been alive way long before you were born, so I know how this heck of a world works. And if you're strung up, if you don't have the brains enough to sleep, eat and take care of yourself, you'll be eaten alive! I know you're much more of a strategic brain than I am, I know. But you can't plan against total chaos, which is what's happening right now! So, you need to take a moment, when's the last time you slept?"

"Last night-"

"Ate?"

"Lunch-"

"Then sit the fuck down, and I'm gonna go see what's happening outside, alright?"

Ludwig gave in. There was no dealing with his occasionally fussy brother. As Gilbert holstered his handgun, he sat down on the couch and watched as his brother gave him a stern look (that screamed "if you move, I will find you") and went out the door.

Outside, Gilbert stood for a moment, listening out to hear what direction the noises were coming from. It seemed a group of people were agitated for some reason, but it did not sound like they were protesting or such. He had learnt to recognise the different tones people took on with emotions, and this one was more of an awed, slowly-spreading panic, with hints of celebration in some directions. And Gilbert was thoroughly confused. This was not something he had ever heard before. He began heading in the direction the voices were coming from, seeing people moving towards the same direction - to see what all the commotion was about. He kept his hand on the gun, ready to make a move if need be. He came upon a great square near the centre of the capital, where people had gathered around something. He was too far to the side to see what was at the centre of the crowd, when he saw two women chatting hurriedly in shocked whispers - clearly knowing something about what was happening. Gilbert made his way towards them, determined on finding out what exactly was going on.

" _Es tut mir leid, was ist los?"_ He asked.

"Oh, haven't you heard?" One of them asked, surprise etched on her face. Gilbert resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd landed on two gossip witches that took pleasure in knowing things others didn't. He could only hope he wouldn't have to wrench the information out of them, or this would take a while.

"No, I haven't, I came when I heard the noise."

"Well, this is really interesting. Do you remember the speeches that were broadcast yesterday? Right before there was the whole attack mess and everything?"

Gilbert was now curious as to where this was going. What did Ludwig have to do with it? "Yes I do, what's he got to do with anything? Didn't he say he was Germany or some shit?"

"Yes, that one. Well now, the - how do you call them? The ones stirring up the revolt? Well anyway, they're asking anyone who knows anything about his location to step up, because they're trying to find him and his brother - who apparently is supposed to be Prussia's representative, although I'm a bit skeptical. I mean, where's Prussia been for hundreds of years now? Non-existent, so,... there's that. But they're giving out all the information about what they look like and what their names are, though I haven't gotten that update yet - we were pushed out just a while ago. This place is terrible, we had such a good place over there, we can't hear anything from here!" She complained to her silent friend.

Gilbert, for once, was glad he had a natural complexion about as pale as a sheet. Because right now, if they had noticed him blanching as much as he felt it, he would probably have given himself away. "Right, okay, well thank you very much. I'll try to see if I can find out anything more. Thanks." He tried his best not to run off, because even one suspicious person would do him great harm. But now he knew that he had to move his ass out of the square and fast to get to Ludwig and warn him. It was looking like they wouldn't be spending much more time in Berlin. Once he was out of sight of the square, he hastened his pace and ran the rest of the way to their home. He burst in through the door, and saw Ludwig startle up from his position (still on the couch). He immediately began recounting what had happened. Just... not very coherently, especially seeing as he was halfway to the bedroom to pack his bags and leave.

"Ludwig you have to pack your bags, we're leaving - take only what you need, nothing more nothing less, we have to go light if we want to make it anywhere before they start looking for us because I think Lutz made his goddamn move and now we're basically being hunted dow-"

"Gilbert, can you  _please_  calm down for a minute so I can understand what the hell it is you're trying to say?"

Gilbert dropped the bag in his hand and turned to his brother. "Right, so, I went to the square, yeah?"

"Because of the noise," Ludwig stated.

"Yeah, that's where it came from. Huge mass of people, everyone gathered around something. I don't know, I'm too far, I can't see shit from where I'm standing. Then there's these two obviously gossiping women that are standing just off to the side, that seem to know something. Gossiping women usually do. So I go up to them, right?"

"What did you do?"

"What? Nothing! God damn, will you listen? Well, I went up to them, asked them what the fuck was going on." At that point he paused, not quite sure why.

"Well?"

"Well, turns out Lutz put a price on your and my head. Klaus is probably in on it too, I mean I'm hunted too." Gilbert turned back to the bag, picked it up and resumed the hurried packing. "So how about you get your necessary things, don't take a single fucking book, and then we're off, because I sure as hell don't want to end up an ingredient in a knockwurst," Gilbert huffed, gathering random clothes that would keep him warm (but weren't necessarily the best coordinated in terms of style or colour).

Ludwig stood, momentarily stunned into inaction. "You couldn't say this immediately?!" With that, he flew out of the room.

"I tried, you  _dummkopf_!" Gilbert shot back. "Get your ass moving, I'm out in fifteen!"

* * *

Alfred stared at the wall. To an outsider, it might have seemed that he was trying to disintegrate the wall with his frozen glare.

That's almost exactly what he was trying to do.

He didn't even bother listening to the people arguing back and forth around the meeting table, because their ideas were all useless and futile suggestions. He had not yet pointed that out to them, but if it continued any longer, he would probably have to fetch himself some kind of strong drink and then tell them all to fucking  _think_ for a minute and not just fire off the first idea that came to their mind.

He was already feeling the effects of a divided nation, feeling like his mind was being overridden by ideas that were not quite his own. He could also feel that darker side of him edge its way forward, as if waiting to seize its opportunity. Alfred would _not_ let that happen, under any circumstances.

He knew he could nuke the entire goddamn city of Los Angeles, eliminating therefore the major base of Allen's operations. He knew he could also send the army marching in across the unofficial border between Western and Eastern America. He knew he  _could_ sacrifice what and whoever he wanted. But he also knew that that would be giving in to the inhumane side of him, and he refused to fall so low.

"Alfred, please, the wall is not your enemy, Allen is! And seeing as you are still sporting very lovely bruises and a healing lip, how about you contribute to this and don't just let it slide?" His boss was looking straight at him, expectantly.

Alfred was silent for a minute, before coming up with something that would not piss off his boss completely and have him sent home early from the meeting, but that would make his stance still obviously and painfully clear. "Right, uh... How about you guys," he motioned to the generals and colonels and department heads gathered in the room, "suggest some strategies and I tell you what I think. Fair?"

His boss glowered at him, but nevertheless nodded to the men at the table.

"We could always send a covert operation of recon-"

"Where? Into Los Angeles, and try to find where Allen's military base is? Useless, because I know exactly where it is, so that would be completely unnecessary," Alfred countered.

"You do? Where?"

"L.A.'s Air Force Base. Major military facilities, supplies, defence systems, perfect location really."

"Well, what are we waiting for? Have the air force-"

"Again, useless, because bombing the location would only cause further retaliation from Allen. You can't kill him, he's got too much support over there - he's gaining on me - that by killing him you risk throwing the entire Western half into chaos and who knows what will happen then. Plus there would probably be a shit ton of civilian casualties, which isn't gonna go over great to a rioting people."

"We could send ground for-"

"Are you actually thinking about honestly declaring a civil war? Really? Because if I remember correctly there cannot be American troops on American soil unless that same god damn soil is under attack! Unless we ask the goddamn Congress, but hey, isn't that a great idea? Let's get more bureaucracy in our way, have a little vote, and then argue a bit more because half of Congress isn't even here, having up and left back home or decided to join Allen and his fucking riot!" (2)

"We could plead Canada-"

Alfred snorted. "They've got their own problems to take care of. Did you not hear? Their goddamn Prime Minister was assassinated, the nation was thrown into a panic, and Matthieu has yet to make an appearance anywhere. No-go."

The Joint Chiefs went quiet, not really knowing how to counter the relentless shot-downs Alfred countered every idea with.

"Alfred, could you please try not to attack every idea, and instead make productive commentary as to how we could overcome this situation-"

Alfred slumped back in his chair. "Jesus Christ, do you even know how much of that sentence is just  _wrong_?" Eyebrows rose at the tone Alfred gave his boss, but everyone remained silent for fear of what the nation would do if pushed. "I don't attack every idea, I'm making sure that people of my nation do not go headlong into their unnecessary deaths. I'm trying to ascertain that  _I_ do not die in the process, which would be a  _pretty bad_ situation for you, because you'd be out of a nation. I'm trying to make sure that you do not strengthen Allen in a way that the power balance between us would shift, lest  _he_  become the United States of America. I am trying to make sure that you don't kill yourselves for nothing, that my people live to see another day, that our entire world isn't reduced to ashes at the same time!  _I am trying to make sure that after this is over, you will still have a nation!"_  During this time he had stood up, hands placed on the table in an aggressive stance - the wood had splintered slightly under the force he had, unaware, applied. His eyes were flaming dangerously, his chest heaving. His breathing was heavy as he glared at every man and woman sitting around the table, his mind working fiercely, a thousand miles an hour. Slowly, he blinked, and seemed to realise something. He looked at his hands, carefully lifting them from the table. He looked at the slightly stunned people in the room, before muttering half of an excuse to his boss and briskly taking long strides out of the room. He ignored his boss's calls for him, instead heading straight for a restroom. Finding one, he swiftly slammed the door shut and locked it, stumbling to the sink and taking a look in the mirror - in the way he had done such a little while ago at Matthew's.

This was really not what he needed at the moment. Not in the least.

He felt vulnerability coursing through him, and that was the most dangerous feeling he could have. He knew that his tiredness could melt away into power drawn from an almost insane mind. He knew his eyes could darken into a blue that felt deeper than an abyss. He knew that he could destroy and build worlds if he wanted to - but he wouldn't - he couldn't - allow it to overwhelm him. He was tipping off the edge fast, too fast, too far. He was afraid that there would be a point when he could no longer catch himself, when the temporary seal on his ticking time bomb would finally crack.

He felt how he was growing weaker, how his strength was as if fleeing him. He knew Allen was basically  _gloating_ at Alfred's gradual downfall, but Alfred knew Allen would gloat much more if he knew.

If he just knew how every citizen that sided with Alfred pushed the current representative of America closer to the edge. How all the strength Allen gained, was paranoia gained by Alfred. How Alfred was spiraling into a state he may not be able to return from - into a state of fear, power, insanity, paranoia. How Alfred was slowly falling, falling from his position of leader of the free world, and may just lead the destruction of the same world he had helped build. If Allen knew that Alfred was possibly the most dangerous weapon in the world. If he knew that Allen himself might need only to push slightly more, and Alfred would do the rest. How Alfred might be the one who would end up doing what Allen came here to do. If he knew the irony of the situation. If he knew how Alfred could easily destroy every country and every citizen on the planet, and that really - if it came down to it, that he would.

* * *

_He stood, nerves tense and body trembling in the rain. His hands held the rifle, trying not to shake too much. The cold metal was awkward, wrong, it felt like there was much more to the next battle than it seemed. He felt this to be the decisive battle. One of them would have to fall back. One of them would have to bow down. One of them would have to accept defeat._ **  
**

_Either he would lose all hope of freedom or independence, or Arthur would have to recognise him as the colony who resisted his rule. The rule that had raised him, the rule that had extended beyond the seven seas and the four corners of the world. The Empire whose sun never set._

_He hated the feeling of the gun in his hands. It didn't fit, it was wrong, it felt like the opposite of safety. He would be lying if he said that he was not having second thoughts._

_Could he really do this? What if he failed, what if he failed his people? What if he failed those who had put all their faith into him?_

_Did Arthur really deserve this?_

Yes, he does. And you are more than strong enough to win this battle. Trust yourself.

_He didn't know where the words in his mind came from, but the voice seemed alike to his own - only more confident, more sure._

You are powerful.

_He clutched the weapon tighter, closer to his chest, feeling conflicted - insecure but reassured. He wasn't sure whether he should trust the voice - his voice? It felt alien, certain, but also deeper and darker._

You just need to win this battle to prove it.

_He turned on his heels, looking around at his entourage. The field was empty, isolated, there was no-one but himself. This was where he would determine his future._

_This was where he would determine himself._

_He had an unsettling feeling that he would hear that voice many more times._

* * *

Though he had not realised it then, that voice was he, himself, feeding his brain twisted ideas of power and control. It was all born from every nation's natural need to protect its own people - but Alfred knew that his was much stronger. Maybe it was the nuclear power coursing through his veins, maybe it was the sheer firepower that made his heart beat, maybe it was the manpower or the air force or the naval strength, but he was the most powerful and dangerous nation on the world, and when his people were threatened he was that much closer to falling apart.

He felt a sudden surge of anger well up within him, flooding his mind, fogging his thoughts. Anger at himself, for not having protected his people. Anger at Allen, for daring to attack him. Anger at Arthur for not warning them of the danger sooner. Anger, that ripped a growl from his lungs, up his throat, and had his arm drawn back and flung forwards. The mirror shattered, the pieces digging into his skin and tinkling down - into the skin, onto the tile floor. His reflection was gone, that reflection that haunted him, scared him. He drew his hand back towards himself, not even feeling the shards embedded in it. He felt blood well up, his knuckles clenching and flexing from the strain. He ignored the knocks at the bathroom door, asking if everything was fine and whether he would open the door. He leant against the wall to slow his breathing, his heart, the panic that was slowly flooding his mind, the fear that was holding him tighter in its grip. He slid down the wall, ending up sitting on the cold tile, his head in his hands. He could feel blood trickling down his hand, into and onto his white shirt sleeve, sticking to his hair as he ran his hand through it.

He tried to think clearly, rationally, but he found himself too agitated to do so. Standing up, he quickly rinsed his hand and plucked a couple of the shards out of the injured skin. He had to get home, to find a way to calm the fuck down before he did something he would most definitely regret. He tried to wash out the small amounts of blood clinging to his hair, in order not to shock his boss into thinking he had gone completely insane.

_Which, in a sense, he was slowly doing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> はい - (Japanese) yes
> 
> Notes:
> 
> (1) The CSIS is the Canadian Security Intelligence Service - basically the Canadian equivalent to the America's CIA.
> 
> (2) In America, as far as I could gather from the internet, deploying ground forces while the country is not in a state of war (which Alfred has not yet declared in America) cannot happen unless under special circumstances (which would require Congress approval). I might be wrong, if I am I would be glad to know.


	12. Sound Of Madness

_"Heaven if you sent us down_  
_So we could build a playground_  
_For the sinners to play as saints,_  
_You'd be so proud of what we've made."_

_\- Crossfire, Stephen_

"Do you know why he isn't here yet?" The honey-sweet voice drawled, drawn out and wide for effect. "Why he hasn't come to look for you? Why he isn't ransacking the entire country to find you? Do you know, Lovino?" The name was a drawn-out purr, a bittersweet edge in the voice, a warning and a taunt and an insult all at the same time.

Dull green eyes met gleaming violet ones. All they saw was the reflection of a reality of death, of pain, a reality that was the only truth for Lovino - had been for days on end. Luciano strolled leisurely around Lovino, the footsteps echoing loudly in the hollow silence of the room. Flavio was leaning against the far wall of the room, facing the captive, his eyes switching between the scene in front of him and his nails at which he was picking.

"Because he  _doesn't care_  about you," the voice snarled, but it was too sweet, it was wrong, it was smug and pleased, it was angered and vicious. Everything it both should and shouldn't be. As sharp as the knife in his hand, Luciano's voice glinted with equal promise of violence."Don't you see it already? Your dearest brother has abandoned you. He's more concerned with himself than finding you. It doesn't matter to him what happens to you, because if  _you die,_ he becomes the sole Italy, doesn't he?" There was a giggling lilt at the end of the sentence. There was silence, in which a derisive snort could be heard. "Did you have something to say?"

"Believe me, I have a shit ton of things to say to you-"

"Go ahead, I have time," Luciano irked.

"You couldn't find anything more clichéd to add to this, could you? Really?" Romano spat. "I've lived a thousand years,  _I know_ every single tactic there is to get information. Humans live such a short time that it works on them! But I have known my brother for as long as I've lived, I have dealt with the annoying bastard's every single habit, emotion, thought since we were born! God damn it, some days I wished we weren't the same nation so that I wouldn't have to deal with him. If he had abandoned me,  _I would know it._ Second of all, if he has, so fucking what? Better for him! Instead of looking for me, he  _should_ be taking care of the nation, protecting it from  _you,_  making sure  _you_  don't have a chance at winning this - this - whatever this is. If he has abandoned me, it means he has not abandoned our people. If he has abandoned me, and becomes the sole Italy, it means  _you don't fucking get to do that._ So, on the whole, I am glad it's  _me_ who's here, me who you're tormenting and pissing off as best you can, because maybe Feliciano can then do what I can't do."

Luciano's eyebrows shot up. "You seem to be taking a rather positive outlook at this situation," he said, a laugh accentuating the last few words. "Especially when there's two outcomes to this - you die, or you die with Feliciano. It's a shame he didn't come looking for you, for the most emotional nation out there he seems really cold-hearted to me at the moment." He twirled the knife in his hands, the blade flashing in the dim, cold light from the lamp at the corner of the room.

"I don't fucking care what he seems to you, how the fuck do you think he's survived as a nation when I wasn't there for him? He isn't a complete idiot,"  _though he tries,_ Lovino muttered in his mind. "He's still a fucking nation. He still has blood on his hands, just like anyone else. He has seen the world at its best and its worst, but the fact that he chooses to see the positive doesn't mean he's a fucking complete dumbass! Unlike you, who don't seem to understand the responsibility that comes with being a fucking actual country!"

Luciano's eyes flared, blazing to life. "Oh, trust me, you will not live to see what it means to be an 'actual country' in my terms." With every word, his smile grew wider, a giggle edging its way into his voice. "I'm not here to find responsibility, I'm here to find revenge. I'm here to seek chaos. I am more vindictive than you can imagine, and because you have hurt me once, I will kill you a thousand times!" He paused, a grin coming to his face. "Actually... you know what? I could actually do that. I could kill you. I could see the blood drain from your body, and if you've still got enough support to be considered a nation - you have nothing to worry about, because you will resurrect. If not... your worries are over, aren't they?"

Lovino's eyes flashed, fear and anger blending. "You - what the fuck do you have to gain from that? The fact that I haven't died yet - the fact that I can feel my people still standing with me means that I will resurrect! Means that even though I am in a weakened state right now, I will be new and whole once again; then what? You think I'll fucking let it slide? Whatever you do, I will return the favour! You have nothing to gain from that!"

Luciano glancced at Flavio, who had been leaning against the wall for the entire time - for once, in silence. "We'll see about that," Luciano said to Lovino. "Flavio - get ready, you're striking now," he shot at the other Second Player, before turning back to Lovino with a grin on his face.

"Finally I get to-"

"Get out,  _bastardo_!" Luciano shot before the door shut behind the other Italian. He turned to Lovino. "We'll see if you have an Italy to come back to, eh?"

Luciano's eyes glinted like the knife that flashed across Lovino's throat, the weapon's stained tint the same as those of his crimson irises.

* * *

Arthur slammed the button on the wall, pulling and tugging at the chords and tubes and whatnot attached to him. Once he had detached himself of the cardiac monitor and the IV tube, a nurse came in with a panicked look on his face. "Sir, what is- Mr. Kirkland!"

Arthur shot him a vicious glare. "Don't you  _bloody_ 'Mr. Kirkland' me, I am  _leaving_ and that is the last of it. I am perfectly healed enough to leave this hospital and that is exactly what I will do - and you will help me get these bloody fucking tubes off of me or so help me I will  _cut them off!_ "

The nurse seemed alarmed at that, immediately ducking out of the room. Arthur glared for a moment before returning to tugging at the tubes. God, how many were there? And did they make sure to tangle them all up before putting them on so that something such as this would not happen? Letting out a frustrated growl, Arthur flung his legs over the side of the bed and stood - or attempted to. The moment he was on his feet, his eyes went dark with a head-rush and his legs would have given out had he not caught the edge of the bed.

"Bloody fucking fuck-!"

"Mr. Kirkland, please, if you would get back to the bed-" A doctor, who had just entered the room, said, her voice coaxing him to get back into the bed. Which he refused to do.

"I bloody well will not, I have a country to tend to, and as such I recover much faster than a human being! Get me fucking crutches, contact my government and I will be perfectly fine, if you would- let go of me, for god's sakes I will  _sue_ if you do not release me this instant!" The doctor and nurse both let go of the snarling and vicious Englishman, who huffed and straightened up. "Thank you, if you would  _please_ provide me with a set of crutches and alert my government as to my state - and  _get these tubes off_ \- I would be very thankful." His glare was enough to cut off all protests from either other persons in the room. Instead, the doctor detached the tubes from him while the nurse left the room, presumably to make the call to Arthur's government.

His eyes snapped wide when he realised he had been with his government during the attack.

What had become of it?

What government was the nurse calling?

Arthur found himself in a hurry to snap the tubes off his body, urging the doctor to help him as she wanted to check his vital signs. He assuring her he was perfectly fine, but she seemed very reluctant to accept it as a fact.

"Listen, I must - the nurse, he can't make his call - what happened to the government actually? I mean with the attack, and-"

The doctor shifted, a look of both worry and confusion on her face. "It... It's complicated, neither the revolt nor the old regime have complete control over the situation. The Revolt declared the New Republic hours after the attack occurred, but so far have no real ground on which to stand on with it. The old government... some of the MPs died, but no-one is certain of the Prime Minister's status as of yet."

After momentarily wondering at how this hospital was still running if the government was in shambles, Arthur frowned. "How long was I out of it?"

"Two days, Mr. Kirkland."

"And you mean to tell me that no-one has heard of the Prime Minister in  _two whole days?_ "

"Indeed, that is the case, sir."

"Good Lord, I must get out of here." He finally -  _finally -_ ripped off the last of the tubes and was almost ready to walk out of the room in his hospital gown.

"Excuse me - Mr. Kirkland, clothes were brought for you? I assume you do not wish to leave in that attire?" The doctor was handing him a set of clean clothes - a shirt, slacks, shoes and socks, and she also pointed to an overcoat at the foot of the bed.

"Who brought these?"

"He said he was an assistant in your government."

"Right, thank you," he said, taking the clothes and heading to the bathroom, making quick work of dressing up. He was out of the room in less than three minutes, heading for the main entrance where the nurse was making a call. Arthur hit the counter running (well, limping with his leg screaming with every step, still waiting for that  _goddamned crutches to show up_ ), quickly tapping his fingers on it to gain his attention. The nurse looked over at him curiously, with a hint of annoyance in his eyes. Arthur looked around, looking for anything that might be of use to him in need of a swift escape. He noticed a tray of surgeon's equipment, bloodied and clearly used. He swiped one of the knives and slipped it into his pocket. It wasn't the best weapon, but it was a blade.

"Yes, he is here and he is awake, and should be out of the hospital any minute. Yes... Well, we would have, he still needed recovering in our opinion, but he insisted he was fine and is leaving against medical advice. Yes." The nurse sighed. "I understand, sir." And hung up.

"Who was that?" Arthur asked, impatiently waiting to hear either words to dread or words of relief.

"Name was Oliver Kirkland. Said he was related to you, and that he's coming to get you as soon as he can." Arthur could actually feel all the blood draining from his face, his cheeks growing cold in dread. "Told me to try and keep you here as long as I could." Arthur looked a moment at the nurse in complete silence. "If you would please sit down and wait, he should be here in fifteen minutes."

Arthur swallowed. "Right, yes, good. Could I get some crutches, it's bloody difficult finding balance with my leg, you know," he said nonchalantly.

"Naturally, they should have already been given- oh, there," the nurse pointed to another approaching nurse. Arthur gave her a tense smile as he accepted the crutches.

"Is there something I should pay?"

"Uh, no, it's been taken care of by your government."

"Right." Arthur paused. "Would you mind it terribly if I stepped out, only for a minute? There's some calls I wish to make, and I'd like to catch some air. You know, fresh air."

"Cellphones no longer work, lines went down a few days ago, but feel free to catch some air. And there's a public payphone, landline, right outside the hospital."

"Marvelous, thank you," Arthur smiled, and hopped his way outside. Once outside, he turned around to the entrance, the clear doors showing that the nurse had gone back to sitting about and was on talking to a woman with a fussing child. He thanked his luck, because parents with children took up attention whatever they were doing. Arthur turned to look at the parking lot, digging into his pockets to look for something - anything - that could work to pick a lock. Finding nothing, he stopped a man walking towards the hospital.

"Sorry to bother, but would you happen to have upon your person a hairclip? Or a paperclip? Even something such as a toothpick or a pen - something long, thin and sturdy?" The man looked at him oddly, before handing him a ballpoint pen that had been in his pocket.

"Is this good?"

Arthur smiled. "Thank you very much, it is perfect." And he took off into the parking lot, the baffled man left behind.

He searched for an older model car, because he knew those had two things: a lock he could pick, and accumulated years to make that task easier. He had little to no time, and hence had to make use of what he had quickly and efficiently. He found one two rows ahead, and manoeuvred his way to it. He looked around to see whether he had been spotted, and made quick work of the lock.

It was not the first time he hijacked a car, nor the first time he picked a lock. Luckily, the alarm had not caught on to his actions, and so he managed to enter the car, jam his crutches onto the passenger seat, and find the cables he needed. Now he needed to cut them somehow. Fuck. He looked into the glove compartment, nothing. He looked at the backseat, nothing. He sat back, before feeling something dig into his leg. Remembering the surgeon's knife, he took it out and set to work. He had no idea how much time he had wasted, but it was too much. Quickly snapping the wires and bypassing start-up of the motor, the car was whirring peacefully and ready to go. Alfred pulled out of the parking spot, twisting the wheel. Making his way out the lot and onto the street, he began driving into the city centre and stubbornly ignored the jabbing pain in his leg. The more people there were in the area near and around him, the more difficult to find he would be.

He was handicapped enough as it was to give Oliver the advantage. And he wasn't bloody leaving London, as if abandoning his people when they needed him the most was what he was about to do any time soon.

He also really needed to make some overseas phone calls.

* * *

Matthew had the feeling he was in the right direction. Or that if not, he would soon be found anyway.

Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he looked up at the trees around him, stretching high up into the darkened night sky. He badly wanted to lean against something, but one could not possibly lean against a tent and stay upright. His hunting rifle rested on across his legs, the fire in front of him burning softly as a gentle warmth in the bite of the surrounding air.

He had a feeling Matthieu had come this way, and was still somewhere nearby. And there had definitely been someone here in the last 48 hours, seeing as he had found tracks to follow up here already. With a hunter's senses and the added advantage of being able to feel the near breakdown of the mental barrier between him and his Second Player, he had a feeling the tracks were leading him in the right place.

He knew Arthur had severed the mental unity between nations and their alternate selves before locking them up in their own universe. Hell, the last time something like this had happened, Arthur had been bed-ridden for weeks because of the amount of energy the effort had drained from him.

Matthew frowned. He remembered Francis telling him of these alternate universes, before he had ever met his own counterpart. He had first met Matthieu after the North-West Rebellion (1). And before ever really suffering any damage from his 'twin', Francis and Arthur had managed to lock him up into the other universe. Matthew had heard from Alfred about the Civil War and Allen. But they had both heard only stories from Francis, Arthur and other nations about the previously continuous attempts of the Second Players to break apart their world.

So in a sense, he was meeting a man he could not remember, but whom he was meant to kill. Somehow.

He readjusted his position, feeling his leg numbing under the rifle. He straightened his back, feeling parts of his spine pop with the strain put on them. He decided to take a walk around the tent, to gain feeling in his legs and so as not to completely jam his back. He placed his rifle's butt on the ground, so that the barrel leaned on his leg. He lifted his arms up to stretch, only to stop midway to listen. Something had just crunched leaves under its weight, and in a second Matthew's rifle was pointed in the direction of the sound. Two seconds later, a silhouette emerge from the trees. Matthew adjusted his aim.

"Who are you?  _Qui êtes-vous?_ " He demanded.

" _Si j'étais toi, je me calmerais,"_ a deriding voice said from the dark.

"Matthieu?" Matthew attempted. The figure stepped forward, revealing a dark red lumberjack shirt, beige slacks, messy and long blonde hair, and a face eerily resembling Matthew's own. And a hunting rifle pointed straight at Matthew's heart.

He knew that if Matthieu shot, nothing would happen - he would black out and wake up somewhere else with a nasty scar. He knew that if he shot Matthieu, the Second Player would die and leave him in peace. He knew the other knew all of this too.

So why on Earth was he here?

Matthew had lived long enough with Alfred as his brother to have learnt that it was all about moves and counter-moves. During the Cold War, he and Matthew had played enough games like chess, spent enough time in military strategy rooms, to know that having a nation as an opponent was extremely complex. A nation had lived too long to ignore the simple moves, to let his queen be taken without having planned it five moves ago. Alfred had beaten him in that every single time, what with how deeply paranoia ran in him at the time, and how deeply invested in the war of minds he was.

But what he knew, right now, was that Matthieu had left his king in the open, and Matthew had one move to finish the game. Except he had a sinking feeling that he was about to do the wrong move.

If Matthieu came here, armed only with a rifle, with the knowledge if he died it was game over, what could possibly go wrong for Matthew? What was he missing?

"What's the matter? Looks like your mind's about to explode," Matthieu pointed out with amusement.

"What are you doing here?" Matthew questioned, a deep frown setting on his face.

"Same as you. Looking for you."

"But why-"

"You know the answer just as well as I do," Matthieu smiled.

Matthew was infuriated. He rarely lost his temper - he was, after all, known as one of the most calm, peaceful and collected countries in the world for a reason - but now he was about to. He hated the condescending tone the other took, he hated the smug self-confidence he wore, he hated the sneer in his words, he hated the arrogance with which he stood, and  _he hated having the lower hand_. Though he had no winning complex, Matthew knew this was one game he could not lose. Was he playing mind games? Or was he confusing Matthew on purpose, trying to unsettle him? Was he here to prove a point? Was he here to momentarily incapacitate Matthew?

Matthew tried to see all the possible outcomes of this situation, the pros and cons and consequences.

He could shoot Matthieu. Either that was exactly what he wanted, and he had planned something in the case of his death; or, he expected Matthew not to, in which case it would mean Matthew would kill him and he had no backup.

He could wait it out. Maybe he had men waiting in the trees to seize Matthew. Maybe he would shoot Matthew, to get him out of the game for a number of hours until Matthew woke up again. Maybe he just wanted to taunt and unsettle Matthew, in which case the Canadian would most likely become overly paranoid about what the other might or might not do.

He could let him go, see what he was going to do. He could chase him away, lead him back where he belonged. He could threaten him and impose himself as the nation he was.

_What am I supposed to do?_

"You have no idea what I'm here for, do you?" Matthieu laughed.

"I have too many ideas of what you're here for," Matthew grumbled, keeping his aim straight.

"I can see all the options running around your mind, you trying to decide what it is I'm doing here - even if I know you might kill me. Is that what I want you to do? Do I have an ulterior motive?" Matthew narrowed his eyes. He knew Matthieu was trying to break down the wall separating their minds, and he could feel it chipping away, brick by fateful brick. And if he kept his mind preoccupied with analysing outcomes, the wall would crumble like a sandcastle in the waves. He had no idea how to battle mentally - oh, he knew every trick there was to outwit an opponent, but he had no idea how to stop a mental invasion.

But how the hell did Matthieu know?

**_Because I actually asked Oliver._ **

Matthew heard the voice clear as day, bouncing unwanted on the walls of his mind, echoing infinitely. And it was that echo that shattered the wall, and Matthew could  _feel_ every single vicious thought Matthieu held in his mind flood into his own.

"Good for you," Matthew snarled, holding to his rifle tighter. A fleeting thought flashed through his mind, so fast he could hope Matthieu had not caught onto it.

He began navigating through Matthieu's mind. With no previous experience in mental battles like this, he had no real idea what he was looking for, where he was going. It was an odd feeling, placing yourself into someone else's mind. He could feel more than see the thoughts, as if they were literally only brainwaves transferred to his mind. It was an odd haze that settled across his eyes - he still saw Matthieu, but it was as if he weren't  _there._

A distorted voice reached his ears. "What are you- Jesus fucking Christ what was - Don't you dare!"

Matthew only went deeper into Matthieu's thoughts, trying to find a hint as to what he was doing, what he was planning, he could feel it close by. It was a hunch, he was already swimming amidst deeper thoughts, subconscious thoughts, long-term thoughts, and it must have been somewhere near, it must -

_A flash, a sear of pain, a tear and a rip, a fleeting feeling, clinging to a thought-_

And when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at the darkened sky and leaves. The next moment, he felt a stabbing pain in his left shoulder, and twisting his neck to look at the injury, he saw a bullet had cut through and was probably lodged against his bone. It took him a moment to regather his bearings and realise someone was speaking to him -

"You really thought I would let you go through my mind? You have no chance, you have no idea what to look for! If you knew what's good for you, you wouldn't even try to fight us - we will win in the end."

Matthew moved to sit up, the pain of his shoulder like a knife, and saw the retreating back of his Second Player.

And that's when he remembered the thought he had just caught onto before being ripped out of Matthieu's mind.

_He was relying on me not firing._

* * *

It had been so long since he'd seen anything like this. He wasn't quite sure what to compare it to, really. It reminded him of Stalingrad - the cold, the rubble, the dead bodies scattered on the streets, the constant need for vigilance. But there was an even deeper sense of  _wrongness_ in this situation; the carnage had been inflicted on his people, by his people. He didn't know who was fighting whom any more - his mind was in shambles, his country torn. It was as if his people had decided that they owed allegiance only to themselves, and their neighbours just as their enemies were their foes.

Ivan wasn't fighting against his Second Player. He wasn't fighting his people, he wasn't fighting his government - he was fighting himself. Everything that had haunted him for decades, for centuries had returned, everything he had tried to lock and stow away to be forgotten had resurfaced, twice as bad as they used to. Every repressed memory, every subconscious thought, every flashback was back again.

He remembered the days during the Cold War when he was nothing short of dropping over the edge of the cliff. He had been too paranoid, too fearful, too dangerous, too powerful, too much everything but stable to  _not_ threaten to go over. But he hadn't, he had managed to keep himself controlled. But he remembered every sleepless night he had spent locked away because  _they were at his door_ and every nightmarish dream that came back to haunt him in the day and every paranoid thought and the need to bleed or make bleed, all of it had returned. And it was all because his people had no leadership, had no-one to follow, had no-one to tell them anything. His government was trying its best to control the army, who was protecting the government from the angered people or fighting  _itself_ because of the  _goddamn traitors they were everywhere_ because no-one really knew what traitor even meant any more -

How can there be traitors, if there is no-one to betray?

A growl bubbled its way up from Ivan's lungs, into his throat, nearly spilling from his tongue - but he refused. Who knew what awaited him outside, waiting to pounce upon him if he were to give away his position. Would it be his government, relieved to find him alive? The army, who would be torn on what to do with him? His people, who would either shelter or kill him? Dmitri, who would sure as hell try to kill him?

Were he in another situation entirely, he would have laughed. Outright laughed at the situation he was in. He was huddled up under a bunch of frail blankets, the best he could find - covered in grime and dirt, soaked from the previous night's early snowfall. He was lodged uncomfortably on top of some rubble, he could no longer tell what it had been. His sniper's rifle was resting on the rubble, its nose peeking from under Ivan's cover. The machine gun he had brought with him was lying next to him, unused, there in case he found himself under heavy fire. He could feel the mud on his face, dry and crusted, the camouflage peeling as it parched.

He'd been staring at a sizzling electric cable for the past hour, sparks flying off at irregular integrals. It was both irritating and soothing in a sense. It gave off a grating, constant buzzing noise, whatever electric appliance that had been attached to it having been smashed to bits by the army's bombers, but electricity still miraculously flowing through its useless core. But it was a rhythm of some kind, and it provided him with entertainment. He was trying to average the time in between sparks. So far, the shortest interval had been two seconds, and the longest nearing a minute. The total sum and division he kept up in his mind was beginning to become too distracting. Despite always finding comfort and safety in the understandable logic of numbers, he really didn't have the time or the mind for it right now. So he turned back to staring at a hole blasted into the wall, and at the silence that tread the streets of the city. He wondered what was happening in other parts of his country. Moscow was relatively safe - the army had been posted around the city to protect it, and there were extreme safety measure within the city. He had only barely managed to sneak out in an army car - he would be damned if he let his people die without him being by their side. And now he was here, in the middle of the battlefield.

Ivan knew that his country was falling into ruin, and would soon pass the point of no return. He could feel himself waning away, his strength falling every day, every minute spent amidst the rubble and the fallen buildings and the torn cities and tainted streets. He knew that the moment he and Dmitri met eyes, one of them would end up dead, and the other would win. Ivan was simply trying to drag the situation out, hope a citizen would take care of Dmitri before he did. And as he had no idea where the other was, he was also waiting him out, trying to see whether he would be found. He had felt the weak attempts and prodding at his mind, getting stronger each day. The bastard wasn't even trying, all he wanted to do was see where Ivan was. And so far, Ivan had done a fair job at locking up vital information.

Of course he wanted to draw Dmitri out, he wanted to have the advantage of time on his side.

But so far, nothing moved in his sight, the bit of street he could see - quiet as a grave. But maybe that was what this city had become, a nameless grave for nameless dead. And the eerie silence was getting to him, beginning to grate at his nerves. It was-

And there was movement. A flash of fabric, as if someone had just turned around before he could fully see them from the hole blown in the wall. He hoisted his rifle to the ready, his eye on the aim and his finger pressed against the trigger. Maybe he could get a look at their face, see who -

And the figure moved again, into his line of sight, their face darting about from side to side, their features hidden into a thick coat and scarf. Ivan waited for the perfect moment, to see their face - it was the perfect place to shoot, right in between the eyes, should they see him. And they were turning, and then they-

Turned.

In a flash, Ivan had dug himself deep into the rubble, letting his rifle fall from its place at the read and himself be hidden by the pieces of wall. But he knew she had seen him, and he knew she had seen him see her. He wasn't quite sure why his reaction was the one it was, but it was only natural seeing the assault of thoughts that were brought with her.

_What the Devil is Natalya doing here?!_

* * *

"Where exactly were you planning on us going?" Ludwig asked, hating not being in control of the situation. He was trusting Gilbert -  _Gilbert!_ \- to lead them both into a sensible direction or place. God forbid, they might end up in the middle of their Second Players' lair.

"Take a wild guess," Gilbert prompted, shuffling the deck of cards as if he were spending another night with Francis and Antonio, wasting the night away with card games and gossip and alcohol. It annoyed Ludwig to no end, seeing as it was  _not_ another night like that, and they were sitting in the god damned sewers with their weapons on their laps. Ludwig wasn't exactly sure what the hell Gilbert's reasoning had been in hiding away in a place like this in the middle of the day. And now, he was whistling.

"Will you stop doing that?" Ludwig hissed.

Gilbert paused. "Doing what?"

Ludwig motioned to the deck of cards, a general motion at Gilbert's entire being. " _That._  It's annoying. It's as if you don't understand what's at stake here! Gilbert, you may not be a nation any more, but I am one and you are affected just as much as I am by these events!" Ludwig regretted the words immediately, and saw the thin-lipped look Gilbert was giving him. "I didn't mean-"

"No, it's true, I'm not a nation any more, but I am just as affected as you are, I know," Gilbert said, going back to shuffling the cards. "But see, I've done this before, I didn't get a t-shirt, but I have a couple scars that can testify for experience. Ludwig, you've lived two major wars as a nation. I've lived too many to count. Kiddo, I've lived far longer than you, and I know the art of war as well as anyone can. Listen, I asked you to take a guess - where do you think we're going? Where would you go?"

Ludwig frowned, thinking for a moment. "I would... find some sort of appropriate place to call headquarters, gather forces, and try to locate Lutz and Klaus-"

"That's what they'll expect you to do, because they know you're the more grounded one of us, and they know you would go conventional. But what they don't expect is me having taken control of this, and you letting me act on my ideas," Gilbert mused.

"I'm not-" Ludwig paused. His eyes widened. "Don't tell me you're planning on-"

Gilbert snorted. "Fine, I won't tell you, but that's what we're gonna do anyway so stop whining and get ready."

"But we don't even know where they're staying!"

Gilbert looked at him with interest. "You really think I'm such an obnoxious chatterbox for absolutely no other reason than 'because I can'? Nah, see, best way to get information is to make people think you're not listening to them. So while you were standing off to the side and pretending to mold into the landscape near that museum-"

"Where you were chatting your life away and then we ended up running for our lives when you gave us away!"

"Yeah, but they were clearly standing with Lutz and Klaus - which meant that whatever info I could get, I would get. And I did get." Gilbert grinned smugly. "So, they were talking about what they would do when they got back to headquarters and I was talking about what a nice place this and this would be, and then they told me -" He broke off, another thought bouncing into his mind. "Hey, you know how Alfred has a shit ton of military bases in Germany (2), right?"

Ludwig arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I do."

"And you know that most of them are out of use today?" Gilbert was still shuffling the cards, a soft rustling sound that was not quite irritating, but not calming either.

"Yes," Ludwig said, not really seeing where this was going.

"Well, wouldn't those be a perfect location if you wanted military headquarters, where there is the space and location to store weaponry, house an army, host meetings,...?"

"Which one are they in?"

"Andrews Barracks, closed down in 1994, re-purposed in 2023 for-"

Ludwig knew what his brother was talking about, but was not sure he wanted to hear where this was going. To quote one of Alfred's all-time favourites, he 'had a bad feeling about this'. "Yes, yes, with the attempt to reuse disused buildings, I know...?"

"Well, they did some work on the buildings and now they're in pretty good shape, never were used though. Perfect location. The guys were bragging about how nice the place is and how pathetic it was of the government to let such a place be left unused. Now they're taking full advantage of an almost reconstructed military base, with the good side of being close to the centre of Berlin, right where they can keep track of the whole goddamn country, and in a place they know we haven't visited a lot."

"Ever."

"And so we don't know the layout. But now we know the location, and we're heading there."

"When exactly were you planning on heading there?"

I'm gonna give them a couple of days of respite. When they realised who I was, they probably went to tell the two idiots that we now know where they are. When they tell the whole story, that's when they'll realise they were talking to  _me_ , and the chance of me not listening was way above 70%. So, they'll give a few days' high alert, and once they see we're not coming, that's when they'll let security down to normal again. That's when we sneak in."

"How?"

"Why're we in the sewers? Because we can follow them to the barracks. They're gonna have quite the big pipings, because big facilities means great amounts of people, means a lot of water is needed. So we can get up until some point and then we'll probably have reached a maintenance door into the building. Sound logical?"

Ludwig looked at him incredulously. "As far from logical as humanely possible."

"Good, that's what I was hoping for," Gilbert grinned, going back to shuffling cards and whistling like he had no care in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes
> 
> (1) The North-West Rebellion was a short-lived uprising in 1885 in Canada by the Provisional Government of Saskatchewan. Literally the only Canadian conflict I could find in which Matthieu would fit. I needed something like a civil war or uprising, and this is the best I got. I could have dealt with the fact that Canada was at a point divided between England and France,... but that would have been way too complex to explain. Looking at the conflicts that involved Canada is an interesting list actually.
> 
> (2) So there's a Wikipedia page about United States army facilities in Germany, which is quite the impressive list. Today, about 35 remain still in use. However, there over two hundred facilities that have been closed down, since the US army doesn't need them any more after the end of the Cold War. No military facilities in Berlin are used any longer, but there used to be 18 facilities in use. Talk about Americans being controlling over Europe and being paranoid of communism. But yeah, so there are 18 facilities in Berlin that haven't been used since the 1990's, which is very convenient when searching for military bases in Berlin that aren't in the army's hands. The only barracks that had a Wiki page on them was the McNair Barracks, but those are today being converted into apartments, so they don't work. I'm gonna have the liberty to work with a military base as I want to imagine it. Plus I can now have a bit of fun exploiting a military facility, plus bunker, plus weaponry, plus everything. I have a fear of underground bunkers, by the way, which will be very much fun to exploit when I write underground scenes. Won't it?
> 
> NOTE: I have absolutely no clue as to how sewers work, or how pipes go in and out of there, so I took some liberties with piping and sewers for the purposes of the story. Tried to make it as realistic as I possibly can, which isn't saying very much.
> 
> Translations
> 
> qui êtes-vous - (french) who are you?
> 
> si j'étais toi, je me calmerais - (french) if I were you, I would calm down

**Author's Note:**

> Espèce de - why you (as in "why you little-!")
> 
> Bы любопытный идиот - you nosy idiot
> 
> Fräulein - miss
> 
> Mon cher - my dear
> 
> Mon Dieu - my God
> 
> Angleterre - England
> 
> C'est ça, et moi, je suis la reine d'Angleterre - yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of England (French saying, means 'don't take me for an idiot').
> 
> T'es con comme tes pieds - you're as stupid as your feet
> 
> (1) For those who do not know, the Maginot Line was an example of brilliant French military strategy. It was a line of fortifications built by the French after the First World War between France and Germany. Its strongest walls extend from near Strasbourg to the Ardennes, where France and Belgium meet. Its purpose was to protect the French from German attacks, should they invade again. The French had only weak fortifications between France and Belgium, as Belgium was on their side, and they did not think that the Germans would go through Belgium, or cross the thick forest of the Ardennes like they had in 1914. They thought that if Germans attacked they would try to directly cross the Franco-German border. However, during WWII, the Germans decided to use these assumptions to their advantage: they would organise a decoy attack through the mainland of Belgium, and drive the British and French troops near the coast. Their main attack was then led through the Ardennes forest, near the weak defences. In a sickle-shaped movement, they would cut behind the troops, isolating them from supplies and reinforcements. This was successful, and the troops were forced to flee from Dunkerque. All due to French military planning.


End file.
